


White Wolves and Horses Named Roach

by whenshewrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Derek Hale is a Failwolf, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt Hates Pizza, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier Thinks the Internet is Amazing, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Literal Crack, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monster of the Week, Multi, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, The Pack Being Idiots, The Witcher and Teen Wolf, because why not, slightly self indulgent, they're all idiots, what even is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: The one where Stiles accidentally brings Geralt of Rivia and his bard to Beacon Hills through a portal. That's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 316
Kudos: 651





	1. FIC ART

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on Tumblr and couldn't help myself. This is crack with some plot. I think.

Fic art: the entire thing was inspired by this. Please, check the artist out!

Artist: tumblr @ https://seedsknees.tumblr.com/


	2. Dude, Portals

Stiles was pretty sure he’d done something wrong.

Granted, he’d never actually tried to open a portal before, but Deaton made it sound relatively easy. Or at least, slightly easy. Okay, the druid had looked at Stiles like he was an idiot and then proceeded to tell him it wasn’t possible to open a door between time in space, but Stiles was determined. And kind of stubborn.

He blamed it on the monster of the week. Mostly because they had no idea what the freaking thing was and it’d killed four people already. They couldn’t even track it down because according to Derek, the thing  _ ‘smelled like dirt’  _ and dirt was a little hard to track down. So here Stiles was. On the edge of the preserve in the middle of the night, trying to open a portal. Because if he could do that and lure the creature through, ridding Beacon Hills of yet another threat? Stiles would be a hero and everyone would love him.

Or something like that.

The point is, Stiles was determined. He’d been training with Deaton for months now and his spark wasn’t just some tiny little thing anymore. Stiles could do this.

He might be trying to prove a point.

Because Derek freaking Hale had been keeping him on the sidelines for weeks now. The moment the creature showed up, Derek had pulled Stiles aside and ordered him to stay away from everything. Derek thought Stiles was a liability. He didn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t need to. Stiles knew the Sourwolf. Derek Hale though Stiles was a fragile, puny little human, and he didn’t think Stiles could do anything to help. So here Stiles was. Doing something to help.

Or at least, he was trying.

But now something was wrong and there was a giant gaping hole in the middle of the forest. Stiles didn’t think it was a portal— at least not the kind he’d expected— it was more like a black hole. One currently crackling with sparks and filling the air with a loud shrieking noise. 

If this didn’t attract the creature, Stiles didn’t know what would. He didn’t think anything could survive going through that. Especially not him.

The hole was getting bigger. Stiles stumbled back, cursing.

Oh god, he was going to die.

Suddenly, a loud roar cut through the air. It was nearly drowned out in the sound of the portal and before Stiles could even turn, he was being driven to the ground. Panic crashed over him and he started squirming with a curse, but then hands— not monster claws or anything else— caught his wrists and shoved them into the dirt. Stiles blinked up at a red-eyed Derek and his heart stuttered. Derek held him down, shielding Stiles’s body with his own.

_ “Derek?” _

“Don’t move,” Derek growled, ducking his head as the portal continued to grow. The wind screamed around them and the trees creaked, and Derek’s face was practically pressed against Stiles’s neck. Stiles didn’t even breathe, his entire body covered by Derek’s own. The werewolf was an immovable force keeping him pinned to the ground. Which was probably a good thing because things were ripping out of the ground now and flying into the portal like it was a vacuum.

Suddenly, a bright light filled the air. The portal _shrieked,_ and Stiles closed his eyes, turning his face into the dirt as the entire thing detonated with an explosion of sparks. Light flashed and then winked out.

Silence fell over the preserve.

Stiles laid there for a second, heart thudding against his chest, and neither he or Derek moved. The man’s fingers were still wrapped around Stiles’s wrists, a little too tight to be comforting, and his entire body was tense, breaths coming out in quiet pants.

“Um,” Stiles said, chuckling weakly. “Hey there, Sourwolf. Fancy seeing you here.”

Derek’s eyes flashed. He let go and shoved himself up, a sudden loss of warmth on Stiles’s side. Stiles winced as he sat up, rubbing at the back of his head where he could feel a bump forming. Derek had taken him down hard.

“Geez, dude, you pack a good tackle. Did you ever try out wrestling when you were a kid? Martial arts? You would’ve been fantastic at those.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, fury in his voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Um,” Stiles winced. “Late night walk?”

Derek glowered at him. Stiles dropped his eyes to the ground and kicked at dead leaves. He hated it when Derek looked at him like that; like Stiles was an accident waiting to happen. Sure, he could be sometimes, but he was trying to help, dammit. 

“I was trying to get rid of the creature,” Stiles said. “I had a plan.”

“A plan to get yourself killed?”

“I swear to god,” Stiles said, looking up at him. “You’re such an asshole, you know that? You can’t just put me in timeout and expect me to stay there, Derek! I’m a part of this pack too, I have the right to defend Beacon Hills just like the others!”

“I never put you in timeout,” Derek said, looking offended. Stiles glared at him.

“You did too! You do all the time, bastard! You get all overprotective, separate me from the rest of the pack, and treat me like I’m the token human! I can be dangerous too, you know. And not just with a baseball bat.”

“Stiles—”

“I had it under control,” Stiles said angrily. “I didn’t need you to interfere.”

Derek’s gaze turned stony. He crossed his arms and looked at Stiles, the red having faded from his eyes. But he still wore an expression of defensive irritation. “Clearly, you did. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re here because you are a creepy stalker. I can handle myself!”

“I’m here because you think it’s a good idea to go wandering around the woods at night where four people have been killed, Stiles. I’m here because you’re an idiot who chases after an unidentified monster without asking for help and makes a mess of things in the process!”

Stiles flinched back, anger and hurt punching through him like an actual blow. Derek’s face immediately paled as he realized the words said, but Stiles was done. He should’ve expected this. There was a reason he hadn’t asked the pack to come with him in the first place.

“Right, Derek, you’re right. I messed up, like usual.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, softer this time. Stiles shook his head and turned away.

“I’m going home.”

Derek stood shock-still for a moment. Stiles ignored him and started through the trees, in what he thought was the direction of his jeep. He thought he heard Derek growl lowly, then the man moved to follow. But Stiles didn’t look back. 

Derek didn’t say another word. Which was fine, because Stiles didn’t want to talk anyway, but the silence was still awkward. He tried to walk faster.

The jeep was parked on the side of the road, just where he’d left it. Stiles didn’t see the Camaro but he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek had run here or something. He decided not to offer the werewolf a ride. Derek could walk his little furry ass home.

Except there was a man standing next to Stiles’s jeep. Coming to a stop, Stiles stared in shock. He could only make out a silhouetted figure in the darkness, but the man looked like he was trying to get into his car, two hands on the handle and his face pressed against the window. 

_ Shit. _

“Woah, hey!” Stiles shouted, starting forward. “Hey, dude, what the hell are you doing?”

The guy whirled around and stumbled back. He had brown hair and wore the most ridiculous outfit Stiles had ever seen, and had what looked like a  _ lute  _ strapped across his back. The guy yanked it around his head as Stiles approached and swung it through the air between them, wielding the thing like a weapon.

Stiles came to a stop, raising his hands. Behind him, Derek growled. 

“Dude, were you trying to steal my car?” Stiles asked, staring at the guy. He looked like he’d come from a Renaissance Fair or something. Maybe he had. Stiles couldn’t tell if he was drunk or just out of his mind, the lute wavering in the air between them.

“Who are you?” the guy asked. “Where am I?”

“Um,” Stiles said. “Beacon Hills?”

“And where in the bloody Four Kingdoms is that?”

Stiles blinked. “Dude, what?”

“Geralt,” the guy said, turning in a full circle. “Where’s Geralt? Geralt!”

Derek growled again and the guy yelped, stumbling back a few feet. He raised his lute again and held it out threateningly, eyes squinting a little. 

“Who are you? What did you do with Geralt?”

“Who the hell is Geralt?”

Suddenly, a loud roar broke the air. Stiles pinwheeled around as a new man came out of the forest, white-haired and with two giant (and very real looking) swords strapped across his back. Stiles yelped and stumbled back, and Derek snarled, moving in front of him. The brown-haired guy made a noise of excitement.

“Geralt!”

The white-haired dude— Geralt, apparently— moved with startling speed. He drew one of his swords as he approached, the moonlight reflecting off the silver, and Stiles shouted in alarm. He grabbed Derek’s arm, trying to pull him away, but Derek growled and refused to budge. Stiles was sure  _ one  _ of them was going to die, when the other brown-haired guy jumped between them, hands flying up.

“Geralt, no, stop! Bad witcher, put that away!”

“Get out of my way, Jaskier.”

“No, Geralt, you can’t just go around killing people! We’ve talked about this!”

“That one,” Geralt said, looking at Derek. “Is not a human.”

Derek snarled in his throat. Jaskier spun around to look at him and then made a noise of startled surprise, stumbling back to Geralt’s side. Stiles stepped forward to Derek’s, despite the werewolf’s warning growl. The four of them stood there for a second, eyeing each other.

Then Jaskier tilted his head, eyes narrowed curiously. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Stiles looked down at himself. He wore his normal clothes; a t-shirt and plaid, with jeans he was pretty sure he wore yesterday. But he hadn’t really cared earlier. Jaskier was looking at him like Stiles was walking around butt naked, but Stiles was the normal one here, dammit.

“Um,” he said, looking back up. “My clothes?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

Geralt made a noise that sounded startling similar to Derek’s growls of irritation. Stiles stared at him, eyes widening. “Oh my god, are you a werewolf?”

“What.”

“Woah,” Stiles said. “He doesn’t use question marks either. Derek, dude, are you guys related?”

Derek looked at him incredulously and Geralt’s golden eyes seemed to  _ glow.  _ Stiles squeaked and moved closer to Derek’s side, which earned him another low growl. Jaskier stared, then grinned. 

“Geralt, it was the storm! The storm did this!”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

“No,” Geralt said. “The storm didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, it did,” Jaskier said, his face lighting up. “It was the storm! That noise and the flash of light—”

“A flash of light?” Stiles said, cutting the guy off. His mind snapped back to the portal and the way it’d lit up before exploding, and his stomach did something weird. “Oh my god, did the portal actually work? Did I just do something? Suck it, Deaton!”

Geralt’s gaze turned murderous. Derek had one hand on Stiles’s arm and it tightened slightly, his nails digging into skin. Stiles yelped and shook him off, looking back at the newcomers.

“Dudes, are you even from this Earth?”

“Earth, ” Jaskier said, looking triumphantly at Geralt. “That’s not a place in the Four Kingdoms, you horse’s ass.”

“Shut up, bard.”

“Which one of you is the mage?” Jaskier asked, seeming unbothered by Geralt’s sour attitude and turning back to them. Stiles blinked, then grinned.

“Oh my god,” he said. “That’s me, I did this! That’s awesome!”

“Stiles,” Derek growled. “What exactly did you do?”

“Um,” Stiles’s sudden excitement died as he realized _he’d_ done this. Whatever the hell this was. “I think I opened up a portal. But on the wrong side.”

“The wrong what.”

“Question marks, dude,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Use them.”

_ “Stiles.” _

“Look,” Stiles said, turning back to Geralt and Jaskier. “I think I did something, which wouldn’t be new, but I can probably figure out how to do it again. Until that point, welcome to Beacon Hills, it’s like a freaking Halloween party every full moon, and Derek here is the current residing Alpha werewolf. But don’t worry, his bark is worse than his bite. Usually.”

They both stared at him for a moment. Then Jaskier grinned.

“Great!”


	3. Pizza Yes and Pizza No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is bewildered, Derek isn't impressed, and Jaskier and Geralt are literal idiots.

“Geralt, we’re moving. Without a horse!”

Stiles didn’t know what to think. There was a pair of freaking medieval other-world dudes in the back of his jeep and Stiles going to lose his mind. Because apparently, he was an idiot. An idiot who opened a portal and did things he really shouldn’t have, like bringing both of these guys into his world. Out of theirs. Where apparently, current-day privileges were not a thing.

Geralt grunted in response to Jaskier’s excitement. He seemed to do that a lot.

Stiles risked a glance over at Derek, who hadn’t said a word since they’d left the preserve. Stiles could  _ feel  _ his irritation coming off in waves and he couldn’t really blame the werewolf. Stiles had tried to help and unwittingly piled a whole new set of problems onto their shoulders.

But you know what, Stiles decided, this was Deaton’s fault. He said portals weren’t a thing. And Stiles was allowed to be curious and try anyway, wasn’t he?

“Derek,” Stiles said quietly. “What do we do with them?”

“You should’ve left them on the side of the road.”

Geralt growled in the back seat. Stiles winced and refrained from looking back, shooting Derek an exasperated look. “Dude, not cool. If you were portaled to another world without internet and curly fries do you really think you would survive? Now imagine that backwards.”

“I am,” Derek said dryly. “And after a few days here, they’re not going to want to go back.”

“I still can’t believe this is happening. Can you believe this is happening?”

Derek turned to give him a flat, unimpressed look. Stiles rolled his eyes and focused back on the road, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Whatever, Sourwolf, let me be excited. Oh! Dudes!” Stiles glanced at the rearview mirror. “Are there monsters where you’re from? Is it like Skyrim on crack? Do you know any royalty and if so, would you be willing to give them my number?”

Geralt stared at him blankly. Jaskier, on the other hand, just looked confused and Stiles realized they probably didn’t understand half of what he’d just said.  _ Shit _ , this was going to be a wild ride.

“Okay, different question,” Stiles said, looking at Geralt. “What’s with the eyes and hair?”

Geralt’s expression turned murderous. He looked tense and uncomfortable shoved up against Jaskier in Stiles’s tiny back seat and Stiles didn’t even know  _ what  _ he’d done with the swords. That disturbed him more than he’d admit aloud. He decided he liked Jaskier the most, who seemed to be more than excited to answer Stiles’s questions.

“Geralt’s the White Wolf,” he said somewhat proudly. “The Witcher of Rivia.”

“White Wolf? Dude, are you sure he’s not a werewolf?”

“I kill werewolves,” Geralt said flatly. Derek stiffened and Geralt rolled his eyes. “They’re different from your kind. More bloodthirsty, less human.”

“This Four Kingdoms—Rivia—whatever place sounds pretty bleak,” Stiles said, wrinkling his nose. Jaskier thought about that for a moment before shrugging.

“Depends on the town. And whether or not they want to lynch Geralt or sing his praises. Usually, it’s a toss-up. Quite honestly, it’s my astonishing personality that usually keeps us alive, if we’re talking specifics. But Geralt is very good at beheadings.”

Stiles swallowed. Geralt looked at Jaskier like he was an idiot, but there was a hidden light of fondness behind his eyes. One that vanished the moment Jaskier looked at him, smirking.

“His reputation is all my doing, even if he won’t admit it.”

“Right,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier rolled his eyes and Stiles blinked, struck by another sudden realization. Or question. Or something.

“Wait, do you guys have normal beds? Actual food? Hot water and showers?”

“Showers?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, blinking a few times. This was it, they were never going to want to leave Beacon Hills. Which would be a bad thing, right? Or would it? Stiles didn’t think either of them was currently a threat to the town or the pack but then again, he didn’t know anything about them. Other than the fact Geralt glared about as much as Derek. 

Stiles drove for a while longer, finally getting back into the town, and Derek’s eyes sharpened as he recognized the route they were taking. He looked at Stiles. “Why are we going to my loft.”

“Uh, cause dude, my dad? The Sheriff? Who threatened to go into retirement early the last time we faced a sorta strange situation? He’s not going to accept this—” Stiles jerked his chin back toward the others. Jaskier looked like he didn’t know whether to be confused or offended. “Without putting up a fight. And possibly having a heart attack.”

“There’s no room at the loft,” Derek growled. Stiles snorted.

“There is plenty of room, you Sourpuss, just tell the pups to crash with friends for a few days or something. And if we’re lucky, Peter won’t even be there.”

“We’re never lucky when it comes to him.”

“That’s a fair point,” Stiles said. “But I have a feeling even if he is around, one look at the white-haired golden-eyed scary dude in the back seat, and he’ll be hightailing it to the nearest motel. Maybe he won’t even come back once they’re gone.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Peter’s not that bad anymore.”

“I took a nap on the couch in your loft yesterday and woke up to see him watching me, Derek. Not even reading a book or watching TV or trying to pretend he wasn’t staring, but straight up  _ watching _ me. Standing there, watching me sleep.”

Derek growled in the back of his throat. His eyes turned red for a moment.

“The point is,” Stiles said quickly. “We’re going to the loft. Deathstroke and his sidekick are going to wait patiently while I try to figure how to open the portal again and then when they’re gone, we’re gonna kill a monster.”

Geralt stiffened. “A monster?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, waving a hand through the air. “We get them in Beacon Hills a lot. It’s kind of a flavor of the week thing at this point.”

“What kind of monster.”

“Um,” Stiles winced. “We don’t actually know yet. That’s what I was  _ trying  _ to help with but uh… things didn’t exactly work out.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, looking excited. “You like killing monsters. I like you killing monsters. Let’s kill this monster.”

“I’m not here to kill a monster.”

“But don’t you realize what a good song it would make?”

“I don’t care about your songs, bard.”

“ _ I don’t care about your songs, bard,”  _ Jaskier mimicked, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you forget, witcher, my songs have kept you alive and comfortable many times. Would people like your big brooding self without them? No! Would we get free ale and the finest rooms if nobody knew your name? I think not!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted. “Shut the fuck up.”

Stiles blinked over at Derek. The werewolf looked uncharacteristically surprised at that and in the backseat, Jaskier barked a laugh, sounding more amused than offended. “Alright, you arse, you clearly need a nap. I told you we should’ve waited out the storm!”

“Because you were scared of the thunder.”

“I was  _ not.  _ I was being rightfully wary of getting struck down by lightning. I’ve seen a man turned to ash before, you know.”

“Lie.”

“Take that back, Geralt, I have too!”

Stiles finally pulled into the parking lot. He put the jeep into park and looked nervously back, arching a brow. Geralt looked unimpressed and Jaskier was poking at his arm, looking offended. Stiles glanced at Derek for support but the werewolf was watching them in brow-furrowed confusion. Stiles realized he wasn’t going to be much help.

“Um, okay,” he said, snapping his fingers through the air. Geralt looked at him expressionlessly and Jaskier scrunched up his nose. “We’re gonna go inside now. Ground rules are no beheading, uh… no disemboweling, and no… uh, gutting? If the werewolves growl, just try and look unthreatening, and if Peter is there— you’ll know him when you see him— try and avoid all contact.”

“You don’t like this Peter fellow?” Jaskier asked.

“Well, he did go crazy once and try to kill us all. So we keep our distance these days.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, looking intrigued. “Charming.”

Geralt grunted.

“You know,” Jaskier said, turning in circles and looking at everything as they approached the loft. “This place is much different from Rivia. There’s no grass. Or trees. And the air smells wrong.”

Stiles snorted and Derek rolled his eyes. 

“And all of your houses are like stone castles,” Jaskier continued, pausing in front of the loft and gazing up at it. His eyes were round as he shook his head. “I’m inspired, Geralt, inspired. There is definitely going to be a song about this.”

“Joy,” Geralt said flatly. 

Stiles shouldn’t have been surprised to see Derek’s betas waiting for them the moment the loft door slid open. Erica was on her feet in a second and Boyd stood at her side, crossing his arms as he surveyed the newcomers. Geralt tensed, looking defensive, and Jaskier tilted his head.

“Fascinating.”

“Derek,” Erica said, her eyes fixed on Geralt. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Stiles is an idiot,” Derek grunted. Stiles squawked and glared at him as the werewolf stalked into the loft without waiting or attempting at introductions. Boyd raised a brow.

“Stiles, what did you do?”

“I hate you all,” Stiles grumbled. But he went through the introductions, a brief summary, and watched Derek’s betas stare in confusion and shock. He also nearly wet himself when Geralt strode into the room, threw his swords onto the coffee table, and dropped onto the couch. Jaskier chuckled weakly, hurrying after him.

“What the hell has Beacon Hills come to,” Erica said. “He has  _ white hair.” _

“Why is that what you’re concentrating on?” Isaac asked, looking incredulous. Erica shrugged, eyeing Geralt almost hungrily.

“Because if I concentrate on anything else, it’s going to get very uncomfortable for everyone with werewolf noses in here.”

Stiles groaned. Boyd looked a little murderous and Erica patted him on the cheek.

“Don’t worry, babe, I know my limitations.”

“I’m not worried.”

“I mean, he is like two of you,” Isaac said, looking nervously over at the witcher. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I’m  _ not  _ worried,” Boyd repeated. Though he looked a little worried.

“Wait,” Stiles looked around. “Where’d Derek go?”

“He’s in his room pouting,” Erica grinned, looking inappropriately cheerful about that. “We could literally smell his angst from the parking lot.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, groaning. “Is anyone going to do anything about that?”

“He’ll bite our heads off,” Isaac said sincerely. “So no.”

“Do you three want to entertain white-hair and easily-excitable over there, then?” Stiles asked, looking pointedly over. “Because I can’t soothe our great angsty Alpha and keep the medieval dudes from tearing the apartment apart at the same time.”

Erica followed his gaze, looking mostly at Geralt, and smirked, sashaying over. Boyd frowned and hurried to follow, and Isaac moved after them a bit more cautiously. Stiles rolled his eyes. This wasn’t going to end well for someone. Probably the betas. Or, depending on Erica, maybe Geralt. But right now, that wasn’t his problem.

“Order pizza,” Stiles said as he passed. “Multiple pizzas. Like five. Or ten. And keep the bard away from coffee, I really don’t want to see how that would turn out.”

Erica looked downright delighted. Boyd less so. Stiles left the room and headed toward Derek’s room, rolling his eyes when he saw the door closed. If Derek was a teenager, he’d probably be blasting  _ My Chemical Romance _ or something right now. Stiles didn’t know how he always got stuck on werewolf duty. Or, more precisely, Sourwolf duty. Sighing, he knocked on the door and then peeked in. 

“Sourpuss?”

“Go away, Stiles.”

“God, you’re such a cliche,” Stiles said, pushing inside. Derek glared at him from his spot on the edge of the bed and Stiles shook his head, moving over to plop down at his side. Derek growled lowly. Stiles elbowed him in the side. “Don’t you growl at me, Grumps. I’m not going to rub your belly.”

“Why are you here, Stiles?”

“Because I’m clearly needed,” Stiles said. “Do you really want me to leave you—  _ and the betas—  _ alone with a sword-wielding maniac and his probably crazier friend? Derek, you can barely handle Erica on her period. That’s once a month. Geralt seems like his period might be eternal.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yes, but you can’t say it’s not true.”

Derek looked at him with an unimpressed gaze. Stiles sighed and tilted his head, studying the man’s face. Derek looked tired. And maybe something beyond a little irritated. Stiles swallowed, glancing down at his hands. 

“I wasn’t trying to make a mess of things, you know.”

“Stiles—”

“But dammit, Derek,” Stiles said, cutting him off. “You do know I can take care of myself, right? I’m not some sixteen-year-old hyperactive kid anymore. We’ve been through too much since then for you to still think that. It’s not fair.”

“I don’t think that,” Derek said quietly. Stiles looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“You do too.”

“No, Stiles,” Derek said, looking a little more defensive. “I don’t. But it’s my job as the Alpha, as  _ your  _ Alpha, to make sure you don’t die. And you’re not a werewolf. If I can’t keep you safe then there’s no point.”

“Come on, big guy,” Stiles said fondly. “I don’t need you to keep me safe.”

Derek looked flatly at him. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I did open a portal,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “With  _ magic.  _ Derek, dude, I’m pretty amazing. Like seriously amazing. Like the coolest person ever on a good day.”

Derek looked away. Stiles could’ve sworn he heard the whispered words  _ ‘I know’  _ but he couldn’t be sure. And it was Derek. So probably not. Stiles sighed.

“Look, we just need to get through these next few days. Deaton’s probably going to kill me, but I’ll get him to help me figure out how to open the portal again. And as long as Erica doesn’t drive Geralt to mass murder, I think we’ll be okay.” Stiles shrugged. “Who knows? It might not even be that bad.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. The second he did, a loud crash came from the other room. 

_ Oh, for the love of— _

Someone was shouting. Stiles swore and jumped to his feet, racing toward the door with Derek right on his heels. They both rushed down the hallway and Stiles stumbled into the main room, only to falter to a stop when the smell of pizza filled his nose and he saw Jaskier standing on the counter, a pizza box pulled against his chest. Geralt glared up at him with crossed arms.

“You can’t just throw food away because you don’t like it, Geralt!” Jaskier shouted, raising the pizza box above his head. “This is food from the gods! A man dressed like a jester brought it to us, Geralt, a  _ jester!  _ I’m not risking eternal damnation because you don’t like the red stuff on it!”

“Jaskier, get the fuck down.”

“No! This is my pizza!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his face tight. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“And you’re going to hurt my pizza!”

“Uh, okay,” Stiles said, inching toward where Erica stood. She was grinning from ear to ear watching the entire show appreciatively. “What just happened?”

“That one likes pizza,” Erica said with a grin, pointing at Jaskier. Then she pointed at Geralt. “That one doesn’t.”

“Seriously?” Stiles said. “You guys couldn't keep them from killing each other— or someone else— for more than ten minutes?”

“Oh don’t even,” Erica said, shooting him a look. “Now do you know how we feel half the time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dude,” Isaac said from Boyd’s side. “They’re like you and Derek if you played an instrument and dressed more like an idiot, and Derek cursed a lot and had white hair.”

Stiles balked.  _ “Excuse me?” _

Derek’s face was a vibrant shade of red. Stiles looked at him and tried very hard not to imagine the werewolf with white hair, but now that was impossible. And a little disturbing once he saw it. He shook his head and turned away, rushing between Geralt and Jaskier, who were still arguing.

“Okay,” Stiles said, throwing his hands up. “I thought we set ground rules here. Murdering bards and committing crimes against innocent pizza counts as disemboweling. On some level.”

Geralt looked perturbed. “I wouldn’t murder him.”

“Likely story!” Jaskier shouted, glaring down at him. “You’ve threatened to rip my spine from my back multiple times, witcher!”

Stiles heard Erica snort and whisper  _ ‘sound familiar?’  _ to a glowering Derek, and felt his face flush. “Okay,” Stiles said, lowering his hands. “This is a safe space. No murdering and no destroying food. Jaskier, get down from the counter. Geralt, go sit down.”

Geralt glared at him. Stiles realized with a start that expression  _ was  _ like Derek’s and that got under his skin like nothing else ever had. He couldn’t tell if the realization made him more terrified of the giant man or a lot less. Because Derek’s bark was always worse than his bite. Stiles crossed his arms.

“Go. Sit.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said. “Or I’ll never sing your praises again, witcher.”

“I could only be so lucky,” Geralt grumbled. But he turned away and trudged back to the couch and Stiles turned to Jaskier, pointing from him to the floor. 

“And you, get down. We make food there, dammit.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose before hopping nimbly down. “I don’t understand this Beacon Hills place,” the bard said, still holding the pizza box close to his chest. “But I like it. Even though you people have your food brought to you by weird-looking jesters.”

“Please don’t call the pizza delivery guy a jester,” Stiles said wearily. “Or next time, they’re going to spit in our food.”

Jaskier looked horrified. “That’s vile.”

“That’s customer service if you piss off the wrong person.”

Jaskier brought the pizza box closer into his chest, eyes wide. From the couch, Geralt snorted, and Jaskier stuck his tongue out at him. Stiles brought a hand to his forehead, sighing. This was going to be a long night, he decided, when Erica cackled from across the room. Jaskier suddenly perked up.

“Ah, and I’m inspired again! Who wants to hear a song?”

God, this was going to be a long night.


	4. Swol Legolas and King Bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack shouldn't drink, Derek is too tired for this, and Geralt agrees.

Fun fact: Jaskier wasn’t a terrible bard. Less fun fact: once he started, he didn’t stop.

Derek never thought he’d meet someone he’d want to kill almost as much as he wanted to kill Stiles. But this brown-haired loudmouthed other-worldly bard was pushing his limits. Derek thought he might be the only one feeling this way. Other than Geralt, that is, but Derek didn’t want to read too much into that. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he uncovered.

The point was, it was one in the morning, Jaskier was still strumming his lute and singing about pizza, and while Stiles and the betas were loving it (minus Boyd, maybe), Derek was about to tear his hair out. He never should’ve gone after Stiles in the preserve. He should’ve let the idiot get himself killed because that’s what happened when untrained Sparks did things like  _ try to open up portals. _

Derek crossed his arms and glowered. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. He was an Alpha werewolf, dammit, not a babysitter.

On the couch, Geralt was staring at the door with half-lidded golden eyes. Jaskier would call his name every once in a while and wave, and the man would roll his eyes, looking unimpressed. Derek found himself staring, wondering if the others were telling the truth when they said they were alike, and if he really did look that grumpy all the time. It’s not like he tried. Usually.

Geralt suddenly looked over, arching a brow. Derek growled at the back of his throat and looked away, but the witcher continued to eye him. Derek swallowed uncomfortably.

This was all Stiles’s fault. Stiles was an idiot.

That thought brought all of the boy’s words in the preserve suddenly flying back; his anger at Derek’s overprotectiveness and his claims that he didn’t need help. He didn’t need Derek. He didn’t want Derek.

“Goddammit,” Derek muttered. On the couch, Geralt raised a brow.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted, pulling the witcher’s gaze away. “Geralt, look, I can fit a whole slice of pizza in my mouth without even trying!”

“That’s nothing,” Erica crowed. “I can fit two.” 

“Amateurs,” Stiles said, snorting. “The thing you do is fold the entire pizza in half and eat it like that. That way, there’s no bothersome slices even involved.”

Isaac cackled as Jaskier’s eyes widened at the suggestion.

Derek looked over, meeting Boyd’s exasperated gaze. He arched a brow and nodded at the other betas pointedly, and Boyd shrugged, raising his eyebrows like  _ ‘what can you do’.  _ Derek thought there were a lot of things he could do. Most of them pertaining to forcible measures or murder.

Geralt looked like he was considering the same thing. Derek sighed. 

Sometimes, Stiles was the one that kept the order. And up until about three of Jaskier’s songs ago, he’d been doing fairly well. Derek thought it all fell apart when Erica pulled out her secret bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the wolfsbane. Derek probably should’ve stepped in earlier but he’d hoped they would drink themselves to sleep. Now, he had to be the responsible Alpha.

Grunting, Derek pushed himself up and crossed the room.

“That’s enough. It’s time for bed.”

Stiles’s mouth dropped. “What? No way, Sourwolf, the bard’s going to sing another song soon!”

“I’m getting inspired,” Jaskier said sincerely. Derek rolled his eyes and turned to Geralt

“A little help?”

Geralt’s raised both brows. But he pushed himself up with a suffering sigh and crossed the room, catching Jaskier by the back of his shirt and hauling him across the room. Jaskier yelped and tried to twist away, swinging out with his fists wildly, but he missed Geralt by inches every single time. 

“Get your hands off me, witcher, I demand another slice of pizza! Geralt, I’m going to strangle you in your sleep. You hear me, I’m going to strangle you! No, actually, I’m going to go across Rivia singing about how you lost your pants to that mermaid that one time instead of singing about your actually interesting deeds!”

Geralt didn’t even react. Derek jerked his head toward the bedrooms in the hallway as the witcher shot him a questioning look. “Second door on the right. Or the third. I don’t care.”

“Wait, what?” Erica said, looking indignant. “You’re giving them our bedrooms?”

“Isaac was the only one ever supposed to actually live here,” Derek said flatly. “But yes, I am. Isaac, you crash with Scott tonight. Erica, you go home with Boyd. Boyd, text your grandmother.”

All three betas scowled, but Derek didn’t care. This was him being responsible and they’d driven him to this. And he was the Alpha, dammit, he made the orders.

“Go,” Derek said, flashing his eyes. Both Boyd and Isaac showed their throats in submission, but Erica only rolled her eyes. Thankfully, Boyd took her arm gently and steered her toward the door, leaving Derek turning on Stiles, who grinned in a drunken haze.

“Oh my god, Sourwolf, you’re so grouchy when you go all Alpha. Do you know how scary the red eyes can be? Well, to the betas, at least. I personally find them very a—”

“Stiles,” Derek said, cutting him off. “Stop talking.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, fine, Grumpy-brows. My bed is awaiting, so I’m going home. Good luck with swol Legolas and King Bard— a literal bard, by the way— because we’ve dubbed him the king of lutes, it all works out, and I’m hilarious.”

“Stiles, you’re drunk. You’re not driving home.”

“Will you carry me then?”

“I’m not carrying you home either.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, letting out a weary sigh. “Fine, I’ll walk then. Except I probably won’t make it because I’m tired, and when I get kidnapped off the streets for falling asleep in the middle of nowhere, it’ll be all your fault.”

Derek rolled his eyes. Linking one arm under Stiles’s legs, he lifted him up bridal-style and ignored the boy’s squawking, carrying him down the hallway. Stiles squirmed a little in his arms, but then gave up with a sigh, going limp. Amber eyes blinked tiredly up at him and Stiles smiled when he met Derek’s exasperated gaze.

“You’re such a softie, Sourwolf. You know that?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, I’m serious,” Stiles insisted. “You’re a literal puppy when no one else is looking.”

“I’m going to drop you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes— or at least, attempted to do so— and sighed dramatically. “I know I called you an overprotective bastard earlier, but I didn’t mean it. Actually, no I did. But I didn’t mean it as a  _ mean  _ thing. I think.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, nudging his bedroom door open with his foot. “Stop talking.”

“You’d hate it if I did.”

“No, I’d enjoy every second of the silence.”

“Liar.”

Derek didn’t answer that, dropping Stiles onto his bed instead. He rolled the boy over, ignoring his flails of protest, and pulled the covers aside before rolling him back again, pulling them up to Stiles’s neck. This wouldn’t be the first time Stiles had crashed at Derek’s loft— or the first time he’d been drunk when doing so. Derek had banned pack party nights the last time Stiles was such a mess he’d thrown up all over Derek’s shoes. 

“Der,” Stiles said tiredly. “I trust you. You know that?”

Derek closed his eyes, letting those words sit in the air for a second. There were certain things Stiles said on nights like these that Derek always kept to reflect on later, though he’d never admit that out loud. Opening his eyes again and looking down at Stiles, he shook his head. “Go to sleep.”

“You trust me too, right?”

“Sleep, Stiles.”

“I was trying to help,” Stiles said sincerely. “I’m always trying to help.”

Derek swallowed, forcing himself to turn away. He hesitated at the door, one hand over the light switch, and glanced minutely back. Stiles was curled up in the bed watching him with a vulnerable expression. Derek sighed. “I know you are.”

He flipped off the light and Stiles made a noise of exhausted content, burrowing deeper into the mattress. Derek shook his head and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

He could hear Stiles’s heart beat calm and steady.

Moving back down the hallway, Derek paused next to the door the witcher and bard had gone into. he didn’t usually listen in on conversations that weren’t his own, but he could hear Jaskier going on about pizza and Geralt’s answering quietly. There was a fondness in the witcher’s voice that Derek hadn’t heard when the others were around. 

Derek ducked his head and moved on, heading toward the couch. Maybe Stiles was right, maybe things wouldn’t be so difficult after all.

Derek had been wrong before.

* * *

Derek was making breakfast the next morning when Stiles came stumbling into the kitchen with a groan. He held one hand to his head and his eyes were half-closed and narrowed with pain. Derek snorted and Stiles glared.

“Ugh, Derek, my head. It hurts.”

“Did you take the pain meds I left on the desk?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but there was a fond expression on his face as he nodded, plopping down onto the stool in front of the counter. The boy rested his chin on his hands and watched Derek scramble eggs, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Hey, did I eat a whole pizza last night?”

“You ate two.”

“Oh,” Stiles grimaced. “Well, that wouldn’t be a first.”

“Sometimes, you disturb me.”

“Don’t lie, Sourwolf,” Stiles said with a small grin. “I always disturb you.”

Derek had to give him that. Shaking his head, he turned to check on the bacon, and heard the other bedroom door open and close, following by the sound of dragging footsteps. Jaskier came into sight with one arm slung over Geralt’s shoulders as the witcher practically held him up, but the bard was beaming. “It smells like a palace kitchen in here. Minus the rotting food.”

Stiles raised a brow, huffing. Geralt dropped Jaskier onto one of the stools and looked over the food with a grunt. Derek rolled his eyes.

“So,” Jaskier said, grinning around at them. “Geralt has decided to help kill your monster before we go home. In exchange for twenty ducats.”

Derek stared at him. “Twenty what.”

“Twenty ducats?” Jaskier said, tilting his head. “Shiny copper coins, good for the purchase of food, women, and wine?”

Stiles wrinkled his nose at that last part. Jaskier looked baffled.

“What currency does your world use?”

“Um,” Stiles blinked a few times before scratching the back of his head with a shrug. “Checks? Credit cards? Dollar bills?”

“Dollar bills?”

“Green paper money?”

Jaskier’s eyes rounded. “You use  _ paper  _ as a currency?”

“Dude,” Stiles said. “We use copper money, paper money, and credit money. We use all the money we can get our hands on. It’s kind of a messed up system.”

“Credit money?”

“Please don’t make me explain how that works,” Stiles said, dropping his face into his hands. “I’m too hungover to go into the basics.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “And whose fault is that?”

“Shut up, Sourpuss,” Stiles grumbled. “And finish making me breakfast.”

Derek didn’t know how the guy was still hungry after consuming two pizzas the night before, but he’d learned not to fight with Stiles or his stomach. It was a bottomless pit that Stiles would fill with curly fries if he could. He looked back at Jaskier, shrugging. “We can’t pay. But we don’t need help.”

“Uh, hang on!” Stiles interrupted, head shooting back up. “I never agreed to that!”

“Stiles, seriously?”

“This guy is a  _ witcher,  _ Derek,” Stiles said, voice low. Even though Derek was pretty sure neither of them still even knew exactly what that was. “He has swords, Sourwolf. Muscles! We can’t even track the monster because everyone keeps saying it smells like dirt. Should we really be saying no to a little help?”

“The creature does smell like dirt,” Derek grumbled. He tried not to focus too hard on Stiles’s mention of Geralt’s muscles— because that totally didn’t get under his skin. But a little ways over, Geralt’s eyes had sharpened.

“The monster smells like dirt?”

Derek eyed him. Stiles spun around in his seat and nodded. “According to the werewolves? Yeah. Wait, dude,” Stiles’s eyes rounded. “Do you have super-smelling too? Woah! Can we just keep you?”

Geralt’s face did something weird. Jaskier turned in his seat too, giving Geralt a smug look. “Geralt doesn’t do well as a kept man. Do you, witcher?”

“Shut the fuck up, bard.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier chided. “It’s too early for such language. What have I told you about using vile speech at the breakfast table?”

“You’re a fucking idiot and think I listen to you talk in the morning.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier. “No. Bad.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Stiles was staring at him with a slightly open mouth and even Derek was a little surprised. Maybe. He supposed if he came from a world full of monsters and mud and was followed around by a bard like Jaskier, he’d be pretty grumpy too. Stiles was already bad enough and Derek could at least put earbuds in to block him out.

“If you can get us home,” Geralt grunted. “I’ll help you kill your beast.”

“We don’t need help,” Derek said, at the same time Stiles whooped.

“Great!”

Derek gave him a sharp look. Stiles grinned innocently.

Geralt glanced between them and Derek sighed heavily, turning back to the stove. Jaskier had come around the corner at some point and was staring at it in facilitation, eyes flicking from the dials, to the glowing red stovetop, to the simmering pan of bacon. Before Derek could stop him he was reaching out and then yelping in pain, wrenching his hand back.

“Ouch, fuck, Geralt!”

Geralt stiffened. Derek stared at the bard incredulously. “Why did you do that.”

“It’s glowing red! Like magic!”

“It’s electric,” Derek said flatly. To Jaskier’s bewildered expression, he shook his head and turned the stove off, moving everything from the pans to plates. He wasn’t the bard’s caretaker, it wasn’t his job to explain the modern world of electricity and internet to him. Stiles, on the other hand, was snorting.

“Oh my god, just wait until he discovers Netflix.”

“That’s not happening.”

“Dude, it totally is,” Stiles said sincerely. “I want to show him Lord of the Rings so we can take notes on the orcs, dwarves, and elves in the movie, and he can tell me if Tolkien was actually accurate or not.”

“Elves?” Jaskier’s eyes widened. “There are elves here?”

“Not in our world,” Stiles said helpfully, jerking his chin toward the flat-screen that Erica had made Derek buy across the room. “They’re just something in the TV.”

“There are elves in  _ that  _ thing?” Jaskier asked, staring at it in confusion. He also looked a little on edge. Derek didn’t even want to get into that. “Is it another portal? How do they fit?”

Stiles’s face had gone blank. Derek closed his eyes for a long moment and took a deep breath, silently willing himself to not crack. He wasn’t going to kill anyone. He wasn’t going to pull a Peter and go insane. He as going to get through this like a calm, responsible adult. But then Stiles grinned.

“It’s magic, dude. Want me to show you how to control them?”

And Derek felt his resolve starting to crack.


	5. Um, Curly Fries?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deaton is an asshole, Stiles is a mess, and his father doesn't take crap.

The thing is, Stiles didn’t actually know how he’d opened the portal in the first place. He read a book, gone out into the preserve in a bad mood, shouted some things, kicked a few trees, screamed at the moon, and then  _ bam.  _ Portal.

Deaton wasn’t impressed.

“You, Mr. Stilinski,” he said, looking at Stiles, then the two men at his back. “Brought them from another world?”

“Geez, dude,” Stiles said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t sound so amazed.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Deaton said routinely. He leaned forward, hands splayed on the metal counter between them, and studied both Geralt and Jaskier. The bard looked uncomfortable but Geralt held Deaton’s gaze. The druid drew back away after a second, looking uneasy. Stiles blinked; Deaton looking uneasy was new.

“Tell me how you did it,” Deaton said. Stiles winced.

“See, the thing is, I don’t actually know.”

Deaton raised an eyebrow. The look was more threatening than it should be and Stiles wilted, running a hand through his hair. He was surprised when Geralt, of all people, growled at Deaton’s expression. Deaton looked uncomfortable again. “Well, where is Derek?”

“Currently?” Stiles dropped his eyes to the floor. “At work, probably telling my dad what an idiot I am. Or not. My dad might literally have a heart attack if he finds out other worlds are real along with the supernatural. Though if Derek doesn’t tell my dad what I’ve been up to, he also might fire the Sourwolf. And then Derek will be even more irritated. It’s kind of a lose-lose situation.”

Deaton’s gaze was unimpressed. Stiles suddenly felt a rush of anger and drew himself up, fists clenched. 

“You were the one who told me I was an idiot for ever thinking something like this was possible, Deaton. I’ve been coming here for months,  _ months _ , to get control over my Spark. Why the hell would you keep things like this from me?”

“Because clearly,” Deaton said. “They’re not good knowledge for you to have.”

“If it would’ve been knowledge I’d had, then maybe I would’ve thought twice before trying to open up a portal to send the monster through!”

Deaton raised a brow. Stiles glowered and rolled his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe not. But it didn’t open anything on our side, Deaton, it did on theirs. I don’t understand why—”

“You,” Deaton said, cutting him off and looking at Geralt. “The monster in Beacon Hills is nothing in any of our Bestiaries. Do you have any thoughts as to what it could be?”

Geralt gave him a flat look. “I have one.”

“And?”

“It’s called a Kikimore,” Geralt grunted. “It would live underground in the forest or if there is one, a swamp.”

“The smell of dirt,” Stiles said, staring in realization. “That’s why none of the wolves can track it.”

“It would be dangerous based on its rank and size,” Geralt said. “From your mage’s description, it’s mature. Strong. Possibly a warrior, maybe a queen. I don’t know how it would have gotten to your world though.”

“I didn’t bring it here,” Stiles said when Deaton gave him a dark look. “Seriously, dude? This is the first portal I’ve ever opened. And this thing has been around for nearly two weeks now.”

Deaton sighed, looking between them. He seemed to consider Stiles’s words, then turned toward his bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines of the books. Eventually, he chose one and pulled it out, turning back to the table. Stiles eyed the title.

_ “The Bestiary of Merlin: Volume I?”  _ Stiles raised a brow. “Is that an actual thing?”

“As you’ve quite clearly come to realize, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton said. “We are not the only world in existence.”

“Woah, so Camelot was a real place?”

Deaton looked at him sharply. “No more opening portals, Stiles.”

“Except for the one to get us home,” Jaskier said quickly.

Stiles glanced between the two of them and groaned, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t even know what he’d done in the first place and now it was on him to open one up again. What if he did something wrong? What if he made things worse? Stiles peered up through his fingers and eyed Deaton. “Can’t you do it yourself? You’re a druid, after all.”

“I’m a vet,” Deaton said calmly. “My days as a druid are behind me.”

“Schematics,” Stiles groaned. 

“I would suggest you take a look at this,” Deaton said, passing the book across the counter. “And hope you can undo what you’ve done. I’m afraid I won’t be much help this time, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Cause you usually are,” Stiles mumbled. When Deaton gave him an expressionless gaze, he flushed and ducked his head. “Sorry.”

“I have an appointment in fifteen minutes,” Deaton said. “I trust you can show yourself and your new friends out?”

Geralt was looking with immense dislike at the druid now. Stiles winced and figured it probably was a good idea to get everyone out; before any situations escalated. Stiles took Jaskier’s arm and led him out first, because he’d come to learn the witcher would follow the bard nearly anywhere— the opposite of what he’d first assumed. The second they got out into the daylight, he let go and Jaskier crossed his arms. He was frowning.

“Well, that man is a downright ass,” Jaskier said decisively. “I’ve met crotchety old druids before, but never one like that.”

“He’s not always that crotchety,” Stiles said, starting toward his jeep. In truth, Deaton kinda was, but the druid had helped them out before, so Stiles couldn’t actively despise him all the time. Even though it’d be easy. “But he’s not always super helpful either. He likes his innuendos.”

“That’s the mark of an untrustworthy druid,” Geralt grunted. Stiles gave him a surprised look which the witcher quite plainly ignored.

“I am sorry,” Stiles said softly. He pulled the book further into his chest. “And I’ll do my best to send you two home. I do everything I can.”

Geralt looked at him, but he didn’t seem irritated or angry. Golden eyes moved between him and Jaskier and then Geralt grunted, climbing into the back seat of the jeep. “I know.”

Stiles blinked. Beside him, Jaskier huffed fondly, rolling his eyes.

“Geralt doesn’t usually like people, mage.”

Stiles glanced over at him, raising a brow. But Jaskier only tapped the side of his nose and winked, as if that meant something, and climbed into the jeep too. Stiles shook his head. “Got it, right. I totally understood that.”

Jaskier had been complaining about his hunger all morning so Stiles decided to take them to the local diner before heading back to the loft. He didn’t think either man would do that much harm; granted, they both still looked like they’d come from a Renaissance Fair. Though, while Beacon Hills was small and people were bound to talk, this wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened. Shit, werewolves ran around the preserve and druids enacted sacrifices underneath magical trees without people noticing. Stiles figured things could be a lot worse.

Jaskier was in heaven.

“This,” he said, shaking the menu through the air. “Is witchcraft. This many foods should not be possible. I can’t tell if I don't trust, don’t like it, or don’t ever want it to change. Geralt! I no longer want to return to the Four Kingdoms. I want to stay here and live a good long life full of food and boxes with magic screens .”

Geralt only stared at the menu. Then he rubbed a hand over his face and muttered a low, almost unintelligible,  _ “Fuck.” _

Stiles snorted into his water. He was starting to realize that although Geralt didn’t show it, the white-haired man was slowly drowning in an ocean of confusion and panic regarding their world. Stiles probably shouldn’t have shown either of them the TV. Jaskier had tried to run away from it and ended up face planting into a wall and Geralt had just stared into empty space for over an hour, golden eyes unblinking.

“Come on, gimme those,” Stiles said, taking both of the menus. Jaskier made an offended noise, but Geralt looked relieved, and when the waitress came over, Stiles handed them to her. “Three burgers and curly fries. And three chocolate milkshakes.”

The waitress stood still for a moment, staring at Geralt. Then she glanced at Jaskier, who had scooted closer to the witcher with what looked like an attempt at a threatening expression on his face. Face paling, the waitress nodded and hurried off, making Stiles snort again.

“I seriously wish we could just keep you guys around. Honestly, you probably would’ve been so helpful with some of the things we’ve faced.”

“Oh! Do tell,” Jaskier said, leaning forward in excitement. “I should make a song about it.”

“Um, well,” Stiles said, thinking. “There was once a pack of Alphas that came to Beacon Hills and tried to turn Scott, my best friend, and Derek over to their side. They also tried to kill everyone else, which wasn’t much fun. At the same time, we had a darach— a dark druid— problem because she was trying to sacrifice a bunch of people to make the lead Alpha easier to kill.”

“Easier to kill?” Jaskier asked, eyes wide. Stiles shrugged. 

“Dude called himself the Demon Wolf. He had really creepy eyes and an ugly face.”

Jaskier made a noise of intrigue. Stiles thought again.

“The first thing we ever faced was Peter’s uncle. He… went a little crazy after a fire he was caught in. Tried to commit mass murder so Derek had to kill him, which made him an Alpha. But Peter’s pretty good at not being dead, so he came back. Sadly.”

“Now that,” Jaskier said wistfully. “Would make a good song.”

“Peter’s an asshole.”

“But,” Jaskier said. “An undead asshole. Now, who's ever made a song about that?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Stiles shrugged.

“Then there was a demon once too,” Stiles said, voice quieting a little. “It, uh, possessed one of us. Nearly killed a friend and nearly drove the pack apart. Derek had to leave town for a little while afterward. Scott said it hit close to home, whatever the hell that means.”

Geralt looked interested by this. He studied Stiles' face and then sat back. “The demon possessed you.”

Jaskier made a noise of surprise in the back of his throat. Stiles flinched, then glared at Geralt sharply. The witcher didn’t look bothered by his expression. “How the hell would you know that?”

“It’s obvious.”

Stiles clenched his jaw. “Fine, it did. So what?”

“It takes a lot of strength,” Geralt said. “To survive a possession.”

“I wasn’t strong,” Stiles spat. Golden eyes raised and Stiles swallowed, looking away for a moment. “Whatever, that story doesn’t matter now. The point is, a lot of bizarre things happen in Beacon Hills. We’ve all kind of learned to deal with them at this point.”

Jaskier looked at him with almost a sad expression. Stiles grimaced and took another drink of his water. None of that could’ve been very inspiring for a song. But it wasn’t Stiles’s fault all the things that happened in Beacon Hills were some sort of disturbing.

Geralt was still watching him.

Stiles nearly melted in relief when the waitress came over with piles of food. She was staring at Geralt again and Stiles couldn’t tell if she looked terrified, interested, or… nope, he didn’t want to think about that third option. It was like Erica if Boyd weren’t around. Jaskier was looking bothered again and Stiles realized the bard’s expression was something between protective and jealous. He blinked and stared. The moment Jaskier caught him looking, his face did a number of things and he looked away.

A bell rang through the air as the diner door opened and closed. Stiles glanced up, unbothered, and then promptly made a noise of fright, ducking down into the booth. Geralt tensed and sat straight up, nearly spilling his drink, and Jaskier made a noise of alarm to Stiles’s alarm, ducking out of sight as well.

Stiles winced and swore. 

“Mage,” Jaskier whispered, looking at him from underneath the table. “What are we hiding from?”

The bard's answer was approaching footsteps, which paused in front of the table. Stiles screwed up his face as he heard a long-suffering sigh, and slowly lifted his head, meeting the gaze of the town Sheriff with a small smile. 

“Uh, hey dad. Fancy seeing you here?”

Jaskier sat up so fast, he caught the underside of his head on the edge of the table and let out a startled  _ ‘bollocks!’  _ which earned one too many stares from around the diner. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow and leaned back on his heels, surveying the table. “Stiles, what the hell is going on here?”

“Uh,” Stiles said, floundering for a moment. “Comic-Con?”

“Stiles.”

“Ugh,” Stiles said, sighing. “Derek didn’t tell you anything?”

“Derek? Are you telling me my second-most-trusted Deputy is keeping secrets from me, Stiles?”

“Oh my god, don’t let Derek hear that first part,” Stiles muttered. “He already has it out for Parrish for some reason. Poor guy can’t catch a break.”

“Stiles, talk. Now.”

Stiles looked down at his burger and fries sadly, before pushing the plate away and turning toward his dad. Geralt was watching the man with a slightly concerning critical expression and Jaskier was staring like he’d never seen another human before. Stiles waved a hand through the air weakly.

“Um, dad, meet Geralt and Jaskier. I accidentally portaled them here from a fantasy world that’s basically Middle Earth on crack— because we decided Skyrim just wasn’t right— and now Derek and I are babysitting until I figure out how to open a return portal back. Which we were trying to do this morning, but then the bard— Jaskier— got hungry.”

Jaskier smiled and waved, mouth stuffed full of curly fries. Geralt had stiffened at the term  _ ‘babysitting’  _ but Stiles thought it was accurate in reference to Jaskier. And if the witcher was internally panicking as much Stiles thought he was, it was accurate in his case too. His dad gave him a disbelieving stare.

“You told me you were having a pack bonding night.”

“Uh, we were?” Stiles said, rubbing the back of his head. “I ate two pizzas, Isaac learned how to use the lute, Erica gave up on seducing a man five times her age, and Boyd refrained from attempting murder on said person.”

“Who is  _ five times her age?” _

“Oh,” Stiles glanced across the table. “Geralt’s like, a hundred years old.”

Geralt grunted and the Sheriff gave him a wide-eyed stare. Stiles couldn’t help but notice his fingers stretching for his gun, which made him squawk in alarm and leap forward, grappling at the man’s arm. 

“No, dad, no! Geralt and the bard are friendly!”

Geralt's eyes flashed as he shoved himself up. Noises of surprise echoed through the diner and Jaskier was scrambling to Geralt’s side in a second. Stiles cursed and dove between them, waving his hands through the air. 

“Hey, no, stop it! We’re in public!”

“Then let’s take this outside,” the Sheriff said, his eyes never leaving Geralt. “Clearly, I need to have a talk with my son and the two newest lost puppies he’s gotten his hands on.”

Stiles thought calling Geralt a lost puppy was asking for death. But he chuckled weakly and grabbed his dad by the arm, dragging him out of the diner before they could get kicked out or worse. He hated Derek a little for making him deal with this alone. 

Outside, his dad pulled away. Stiles made sure he stayed between him and Geralt because he loved his dad, but that would not end well for him. Either of them, probably. Stiles didn’t want to think about how Jaskier would react if his witcher got shot.

“Alright, okay,” Stiles said, hands up. “We’re gonna play nice here, because no one is the enemy.”

The Sheriff didn’t look convinced. 

“I did a thing, dad, and it’s gonna take another thing or maybe more to fix it. But the monster that keeps killing people? They’re gonna help us take care of it.”

“There was another killing, you know,” the Sheriff said. “Last night.”

Stiles straightened. “Wait, last night, last night?” As in the night the portal opened? That might’ve been the reason nothing had come, Stiles realized, despite the noise and chaos the portal had caused. He felt a little sick. “Who died?”

“A college kid out camping with his friends,” the Sheriff said, looking sad. “We’ve closed off the roads into the preserve until this thing is taken care of. People still think it’s some kind of rabid animal.”

“It’s called a Kikimore,” Stiles mumbled, remembering Geralt’s words. “We think it's from their world.”

The Sheriff set his jaw, looking between Geralt and Jaskier. He glanced back at Stiles and sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I’ll let Derek off early, okay? I want the thing taken care of as quickly as possible.”

“Really?” Stiles said, perking up. He grinned. “Oh my god, thank you, dad, you’re a saint.”

“But you’re going to be careful,” the Sheriff said, fixing him with a pointed look. Then his gaze flicked to Geralt. “And I swear to god, I’ll hunt you down in any world if anything happens to my son. Is that understood?”

Geralt looked surprised. Jaskier was cackling softly and the witcher nodded, shifting from foot to foot. “Yes.”

“And the next time you do pack bonding,” the Sheriff said, looking back at Stiles. “I want to know the details. All of them, word for word.”

“Details,” Stiles said weakly, nodding. His dad really didn’t, if Stiles’s fogged-up memory of the last night was correct. All that had happened was not a tale for his father, Stiles knew, unless he wanted Derek in an early grave and his old bedroom to become his new prison cell. “Right.”

The Sheriff looked around again, then sighed, shaking his head. He started back toward the diner. “I’m getting a burger,” he called, waving a hand over his shoulder. “And if you say one word about my heart or my health, Stiles, I’ll take everything back.”

Stiles swore and watched him disappear inside. That was fine. His dad would be eating salads for the rest of the week, at the very last. He turned around and realized the other two were staring at him.

“What?”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier tilted his head and studied Stiles as if he was seeing him in a whole new light. “Clearly, parents here treat their children very differently.”

“Um,” Stiles said, blinking. “Dude? Do you have some issues we need to talk about?”

“Come on,” Geralt interrupted, starting across the parking lot without waiting. “We have a Kikimore to kill.”

Stiles blinked a few times and shook his head. Jaskier stumbled over his own feet following after the witcher and Stiles glanced back at the diner one more time, his stomach rumbling slightly. Chewing on his bottom lip, he sighed and followed. Someone was buying him curly fries after all of this. Maybe Erica. Probably Derek. 

Yeah, Stiles was going to make Derek.


	6. On a Mission

Geralt watched Stiles flip his phone closed with a sigh. The kid ran a hand through his hair and plopped down onto the couch, throwing his feet up onto the coffee table. Geralt raised a brow.

“So?”

“Derek and the rest of the pack are going to meet us here,” Stiles said with a shrug. “At some point or other.”

“O-oh!” Jaskier said, looking excited. “Rest of the pack?”

“Derek’s three betas from yesterday,” Stiles said, waving a hand through the air. “And a couple of others. Fair warning, don’t piss Lydia or Allison off, and Jackson will probably act like a douchebag even though he’s literally a giant ball of angry angsty feelings. Just don’t get too offended if he glares a lot and rolls his eyes.”

“Your friends confuse me,” Jaskier said honestly. Stiles grinned.

“To be honest, they confuse me too.”

Geralt stayed quiet. He sat on one of the stools near the counter and tried not to feel too uncomfortable, despite doing his best to draw himself together before another meeting with a group of these strange people. 

The first handful had been hard enough getting used to. Geralt had done his best to remain calm from the beginning, but the moment they’d arrived here last night and the blonde-haired werewolf had practically sat on him, Geralt had been panicking.

He didn’t know who realized that and who didn’t. Fuck, Geralt didn’t know anything about these people or what they were supposed to be, and that got under his skin unlike anything else. In his world, werewolves were monsters. Werewolves were a thing he hunted; covered in fur with bloody claws and sharp teeth. They weren’t people, they weren’t children. And while Geralt wasn’t a stranger to killing children, by the time his sword usually touched their necks, they weren’t children anymore.

But these people— this place— were things he never imagined would have existed. He might have thought it was the afterlife if he didn’t think he was going somewhere far less comfortable. And Jaskier was here. Geralt would have lost his fucking mind if Jaskier wasn’t here.

Even last night, in an unfamiliar place, an unfamiliar room, and an unfamiliar bed, Geralt had kept himself together. Jaskier’s familiar breathing and soft snores were the things that kept him grounded. Though he’d kill himself and everyone in this room before admitting that out loud.

Geralt didn’t do people. Sometimes, they were as bad as monsters, if not worse. But the ones he’d met here… they were different. They got under his skin and made his resolve crack. Looking at the fidgety, brown-haired kid across the room, Geralt realized that. He had Jaskier’s loudmouth and untamed movements and if they’d met under any other circumstances, Geralt would have either punched him in the face or killed anyone who tried to lay a finger on him. 

And Geralt didn’t do that— not since before Jaskier. But Jaskier was an accident, a curse. The very bane of Geralt’s entire fucking existence. And more often than not, his anchor. Jaskier was his anchor and Geralt would be an idiot if he didn’t know Stiles was the same for the werewolf. 

Geralt thought maybe this was some divine joke. It’d be his shit luck and he really wouldn’t be so surprised. Because all of this? It couldn’t be an accident.

He glowered at the door. No, none of this was an accident. From the portal to the Kikimore, Geralt was sure they were here for a reason. And he personally felt like the divine should go fuck themselves and leave him and his bard alone for once. Or at least just leave him alone. Jaskier was the entertainment, that was his job. Geralt’s was to kill monsters and drink beer. Preferably in that order.

Everything comfortable here made him uncomfortable. Geralt didn’t like it.

But Jaskier clearly did. Geralt didn’t know how to feel about that.

It made him stop and think, though.

“Bard,” Geralt said suddenly, standing. Jaskier, who’d been strumming aimlessly on his lute, paused and glanced over, arching a brow. His eyes danced a little and he smirked.

“Yes, witcher?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Jaskier’s smile ebbed a little. He tilted his head and Geralt looked over at Stiles, who blinked in confusion at him for a moment before jolting and stumbling up to his feet, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Well, I’m gonna go… wait for the pack outside. Make sure everyone gets what’s going on, you know? So I’ll just um— yeah.”

Geralt watched him leave and Jaskier lowered his lute, setting it sideways on the couch. He stood and moved over hesitantly, eyes darting over Geralt’s face.

“What’s wrong with you, Geralt?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier snorted.

“Mm-hmm. Talk. What’s making you all angry face?”

Geralt gave him a flat look. Jaskier smirked, raising one finger between his eyes.

“Yes, that face. Scary face. Spill it, witcher.”

Geralt batted his finger away and scowled even more. Something in Jaskier’s eyes changed and he dropped onto one of the stools, turning it so they were facing. Brown eyes met his imploringly. 

“Whaaa-at, Geralt?”

“The boy is going to try and send us home,” Geralt said gruffly. Jaskier arched an  _ ‘okay so’  _ brow and Geralt looked away. “I’m going back, but I wouldn’t ask you to come with me.”

Jaskier straightened. “What?”

“You… like it here,” Geralt said slowly. “Enough to stay?”

For a moment, the bard just stared at him. Then Jaskier shoved himself up and crossed his arms, eyes turning narrowed and angry. “Are you trying to get rid of me again, Geralt?”

“No!” Geralt said sharply. “Why the fuck would you think that?’

“You’re not leaving me again. Not like last time.”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, glaring at him. “I’m giving you an option. You don’t have to return to Rivia for— for—  _ fuck.” _

“For what?”

Geralt glared at the floor. Jaskier sank back down onto the stool and tilted his head. 

“For what, Geralt?”

“For me, bard, what the hell else?”

Jaskier’s eyes softened. Geralt met them with a scowl but when the bard reached out, touching his cheek, Geralt didn’t pull away. Jaskier chuckled fondly, tracing fingers over the traces of his stubble. “You really are a fool sometimes, Geralt.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Fine. Of course, I’m coming back with you, witcher,” Jaskier said, looking at him in amusement. “Do you really think you’d have any luck convincing another idiot bard to follow you all around the Four Kingdoms?”

“I wouldn’t look for another bard,” Geralt muttered. Jaskier huffed.

“Which is exactly why I cannot leave you without one. Of course, this world has food delivering jesters, boxes with magic screens, and the god-given gift that is pizza, but I couldn’t live here. It smells strange and their currency is paper. That’s ridiculous.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Jaskier pulled his arm back, shrugging. 

“You wouldn’t want to stay, would you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then there’s my answer,” Jaskier said. “I am your bard and you are my witcher, Geralt. When the mage can send us home, we go home together.”

Geralt looked at him quietly. Jaskier was smiling and Geralt felt a not-so-unusual rush of fondness for the bard. He nodded and Jaskier’s grin widened. “Home.”

“That’s right, Ger. Home.”

Geralt thought maybe this world could be worse.

* * *

“Dude,” Scott said, looking bewildered. “Dudes from another world?”

“Yeah, man. Two of them.”

“That’s impossible,” Lydia said flatly, arms crossed. “I can get behind werewolves and banshees, and even kanimas turned werewolves, but other worlds? Stiles, this isn't some bad sci-fi movie.”

“The betas have met them,” Stiles defended, and the other three nodded. Jackson looked offended.

“Why did nobody text me?”

“Because nobody wanted to,” Stiles said, waving him off. Jackson scowled.

“The point is,” Derek interrupted, before the two could go at it. “They’re going to help us take out the Kikimore and then Stiles is going to send them home.”

“I’m definitely going to try,” Stiles said weakly. Derek raised a brow and he flushed. “I’m going to try really, really hard.”

“Whatever,” Lydia said. “I’ll see it when I believe it.”

Allison nodded in agreement. She looked a little pale, standing at Scott’s side.

Stiles thought there were worse ways introductions could go. So he stepped back and watched Derek lead them up to the loft, hesitating in the nighttime darkness for a little longer. He glanced down at his hands, thinking about the portal again. Stiles kind of wanted to backtrack and climb into his jeep, and go somewhere the wolves couldn’t find him. Because what if he couldn’t do it? What if he couldn’t open up a portal again?

“Stiles,” a voice called. Stiles looked up to see Derek waiting by the loft entrance, one brow arched. Slowly, Stiles plodded over.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let them all go in alone?”

“What’s wrong,” Derek said, ignoring the question. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Nothing, I’m fantastic. You?”

“Stiles.”

“Sourwolf.”

Derek sighed and looked at him with narrowed eyes. Stiles crossed his arms and looked away.

“I don’t think I can do it again.”

“Do what.”

“Open the portal, dammit. Derek, I don’t even know how I did the first time. What happens if it was a one-time thing and I can’t figure it out again? What if they’re stuck here forever? Dude, the witcher is going to gut me.”

“He won’t,” Derek said. When Stiles raised a dubious brow, Derek rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t let him.”

“Gee, that’s terribly reassuring. I just… I’m not sure I can do it again.”

Derek looked a little constipated for a moment. He stared hard at Stiles’s face and right when Stiles started to fidget nervously, grunted. “You can.”

Stiles snorted. Derek didn’t look amused.

“You can, Stiles. You’re not some spastic sixteen-year-old anymore, remember? You’re dangerous with more than a baseball bat and you’ve been training with Deaton for months. You did it once, you can do it again.”

“You really think so?” Stiles said, unconvinced. Derek nodded.

“I believe in you.”

Stiles looked at him in surprise. Derek shifted his feet, scowling a little.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“No, I just, uh— thanks, Derek,” Stiles said, the words slipping out in a jumble. Derek blinked and Stiles turned red, shrugging. “I mean dude, seriously. Thanks.”

“Come on,” Derek said, turning away. “We really shouldn’t leave the others alone for long.”

They really shouldn’t. 

Stiles realized that the moment he opened the door and Lydia was drilling a cornered Geralt like he was some kind of alien, Scott was practically swooning over Jaskier, puppyish eyes round as the bard plucked joyfully on his lute, and Jackson and Allison were in the corner looking uncomfortable. The loft door slid closed and the room went quiet.

Lydia came over, looking peeved. “I don’t like this.”

“Lyds, they’re not—”

“It’s strange,” she said flatly. “And portals, Stiles? I don’t like it. Can’t you just send them home now?”

Stiles shrunk back. Thankfully, Derek stepped between them. “Right now, our more important focus is the Kikimore. Something they’ve promised to help us get rid of.”

“In exchange for safe travel home!” Jaskier piped up. Stiles worried his lower lip.

“Right, yeah. In exchange for that.”

Lydia’s green eyes narrowed. But she didn’t say a word and Stiles could’ve kissed her. Except they had more important things on hand.

Geralt went into a short-worded explanation of the Kikimore, though he looked like he’d rather cut off his own hand than be under all of their attention. Jaskier cheerfully added in little facts and stories, and the rest of the pack listened in rapt silence. Lydia still looked suspicious. Scott, on the other hand, looked amazed by it all.

“There’s more monsters like that where you’re from? Like, everywhere?”

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. Geralt grunted.

“So we split into groups,” Derek said, taking control of the situation. Stiles didn’t miss the quietly impressed look Geralt gave him. “Scott, you’re with Allison, Jackson, and Lydia. You’ll sweep the right side of the preserve. Boyd, Isaac, and Erica, you’ll take the left.”

Grudging nods went around the room. Derek glanced over.

“Stiles, you’ll go with us.”

“Aye-aye, Sourwolf,” Stiles said, saluting. Derek rolled his eyes, but Jaskier huffed a laugh, grinning crookedly over at him. 

Derek looked around the room, eyes sweeping over his betas. “You see anything, you howl for back up. I don’t want anyone facing this thing alone, understand? We still don’t know how strong it is.”

“It’s fed recently,” Geralt said. “So it’ll be stronger than normal.”

“Great,” Erica said, her eyes were shining with anticipation for the fight. “A challenge.”

“I’m serious,” Derek said, fixing her with a pointed look. “You see or smell anything, you call for the rest of the pack.”

Erica stuck out her lower lip but beside her, Boyd nodded. Other than Erica, only Jaskier looked much too excited for this. He grinned and nudged Geralt’s side with his elbow.

“This is gonna make an epic song!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Jaskier grinned even wider. 

“I think I’ll call it ‘The Witcher and Wolves’. Got a nice ring to it, right?”

“Come on,” Geralt said instead of answering. “Let’s go.”

“Witcher and the Wolves it is!”


	7. So Sometimes Plans Suck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack (plus co) has a plan, Stiles realizes things never work out, and things go downhill

Stiles could appreciate the fact that Derek stayed next to him as they tramped through the woods. Granted, he was a big boy and he could take care of himself, but Geralt’s descriptions of the Kikimore had seriously freaked him out. The thing sounded like a walking nightmare. Which, Stiles supposed, it kind of was. Still, he didn't exactly dislike having a grumpy-growly Alpha werewolf at his side during a time like this.

He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d been in these woods. The night hadn’t really ended like he’d expected; as in he’d accidentally opened a portal and brought these two crazies over in the first place. But things were gonna different this time, Stiles tried to tell himself. He wasn’t alone this time.

He had backup— in the form of a white-haired monster hunter, a bard that loved singing about pizza, and an Alpha werewolf that always looked super grumpy.

Backup, right. Stiles felt so good about all of this.

“See, Geralt,” Jaskier was saying. “This is more like the Four Kingdoms. Just you and me— and the mage and the werewolf— off to save a town of innocents from an evil monster.”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier beamed.

“And you thought I’d want to stay here all by my lonesome.”

Stiles shot them both a surprised look, but Geralt only rolled his eyes. “Shut up, bard, or you’re going to attract the beast right to us.”

“Isn’t that the plan?”

“Would you like to get eaten alive?”

"Ack, no," Jaskier said, wrinkling his nose. Geralt grunted and gazed over the forest with attentive eyes.

“Then shut up.”

“But you'd never let any monster eat me.”

“My limits could be tested.”

Jaskier only smirked like they were sharing an old joke. Stiles glanced sideways at Derek, who was looking between them with a slightly constipated expression on his face. Tilting his head, Stiles nudged his arm, and Derek looked over with a start. Stiles arched a brow. 

“Something up, Sourwolf?”

“Nothing,” Derek said, facing forward again. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Right, Derek, whatever you say. It’s nothing.”

Derek gave him a flat look, eyes catching in the moonlight. Stiles winked with a grin, which made the werewolf huff.

“So what are we looking for?” Stiles asked, tearing his gaze away. “A creepy underground lair filled with bones? A giant mound that doesn’t look like anything, but then it opens one creepy eye to look at you all creepy like Smaug from the Hobbit?”

Geralt gave him a blank look. Stiles sighed.

“It hurts me when people don’t understand my references, even if they are from a different world. Hey! Do you guys have dragons? Have you ever fought one? Did you steal its treasure or come across a giant dragon egg?”

Both Geralt and Jaskier stiffened at the question. Stiles blinked in confusion but they only glanced between each other and didn’t say a word. Even Jaskier was unusually quiet.

“Oo-kay then,” Stiles said, shooting Derek a look. The Alpha shrugged. “Seriously, though, what are we looking for? Cause I’d really rather this thing not get the jump on us—”

Geralt suddenly growled and drew his blade, swinging around. Stiles yelped and stumbled back, and Derek shifted with a roar. But neither of them were about to gut him for his incessant chatter. Stiles barely had time to react as Jaskier grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the way— right as the grossest and most terrifying creature Stiles had ever seen came scuttling out of the shadows.

It dripped with mud and smelled like sewage. Stiles thought it could be the biggest fucking spider he’d ever seen, except the thing was a lot more deformed and had a face full of sharp teeth instead of two fangs. 

Stiles decided he never wanted to see anything like this again. And he would’ve happily lived a full life in blissful ignorance without even seeing it in the first lace, please and thank you.

The Kikimore didn’t seem to care about what he wanted. Because the thing leaped right at him and Stiles squawked, flailing out of the way just in time. Derek leaped toward it with a roar, except his claws were like butter knives against the Kikimore’s bone-like outer shell. Geralt moved toward its other side, sword catching the moonlight and reflecting it off the flat of the blade as he swung.

“Come on, mage,” Jaskier said, grabbing Stiles's arm and yanking him away again. For some reason, the bard had brought his lute strapped around his back, and it thumped as he ran, taking off toward the trees. Stiles made a noise of protest and yanked away.

“Wait, we have to help them!”

“Ah, ah, that’s okay,” Jaskier said, latching on again. “Geralt’s got it.”

“What about Derek?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure your Alpha beau’s got it too. Come on, mage, don’t be a fool!”

Stile stumbled after him, blinking dumbly. He could hear the sounds of fighting behind them but really only one thing was on his mind now. Jaskier yanked them both behind a tree and stopped for breath, and Stiles stared at him in confusion. “Beau?”

“Yes, beau. Lover? Life long companion?”

“Oh no!” Stiles said, pulling back. Jaskier’s face did something weird and the bard arched a brow.

“No?”

“No! We’re just— oh my god, this is not a good place for that conversation,” Stiles said. He yanked his arm loose again. “Can we please go back help them?”

Jaskier peered around the tree and made a strange noise before pulling back. Stiles blinked and gazed around too, and his breaths caught in his throat as he saw the fight unfolding. Little black shapes raced across the forest floor, the sound of scuttling filling the air. They were all bony and taloned too, like a wave of crab-like spiders surrounding the Kikimore. Bile rose in Stiles's throat and he yanked back, pressing himself against the trunk of the tree.

“What the hell are those?”

“The Kikimore’s a queen,” Jaskier said, hugging his lute into his chest. “That’s her colony. Her soldiers."

“Her  _ what?” _

Stiles didn’t know what was more terrifying. The sound the Kikimore made as she wove through the trees, the grunts coming from Derek and Geralt as they fought, or the scuttling of the colony as they raced like giant crabs through the darkness. Jaskier shot him a panicked look.

“Any chance your pack is close?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, closing his eyes. “The pack.”

As if his voice had somehow traveled through the air, Derek’s howl suddenly pierced the darkness. It echoed off the trees and rang through the night, quickly followed by one that Stiles recognized as Scott’s. Then another. Two more.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief. “They’re coming.”

“Fast enough?”

That was a good question. Stiles glanced around the tree and watched Derek rip one of the kikimore soldiers off his back, roaring as a talon sunk into his shoulder. Stiles didn’t know how werewolf healing would fare against one of those things. He didn’t even know if it would.

“I wish I hate my baseball bat,” he muttered. Jaskier gave him a confused look.

“Your what?”

But Stiles didn’t answer. He made a decision— a stupid one, possibly, and tore away from Jaskier’s side, ignoring the bard's shout to start toward the fighting. Stiles remembered Derek’s words; he was dangerous with more than a baseball bat. Deaton had been training him for months. Stiles could open a portal and he could damn well defend himself against a bunch of freaky crab-spider hybrids.

_ “I believe in you.” _

Stiles felt sparks raced over the tips of his fingers. Terror rose in his throat but this wasn’t something they hadn’t faced before. Okay, yes, it was, but it was also just another monster of the week. Stiles had survived those before. He’d survive this one too.

The nighttime air whipped around them. Stiles shouted at the top of his lungs and the nearest wave of kikimore soldiers went flying back, cracking against tree trunks and vanishing into the bushes. Stiles spun around and came face-to-face with the queen. His heart stopped.

So maybe this wasn’t something he’d survive.

Because the thing was  _ huge,  _ towering over him like an angry mother. Which, Stiles supposed, he’d just killed a bunch of her colony. He froze in place and heard Derek shout his name, and then he was being shoved aside, a silver blade catching in the moonlight.

Geralt sliced off one of the Kikimore’s taloned legs as she drove it toward Stiles’s chest. The witcher shoved him sideways so hard, Stiles went flying, and would’ve crashed face-first into the dirt if Derek hadn’t caught him by the shoulders. The Alpha’s eyes were glowing bright red.

“Stiles, get out of here!”

Stiles shook him off. He turned back toward the witcher to see him dodging another talon, the Kikimore screeching as it's strike sunk into the earth. Derek growled and leaped forward, leaving Stiles's side to rejoin the fighting witcher.

But still, there were only two of them and a creepy-crawling army of the kikimore colony. Stiles tried to feel the sparks that he had not five minutes ago, determined to help again. But he was drained.

And then a series of howls struck the air.

Stiles didn’t think he’d even been so happy to see the rest of the pack. They were probably as disturbed and confused as he was, but they leaped toward the miniature kikimore soldiers without hesitation. The air filled with animalistic roars, the sound of little screeches being cut off, and the queen Kikimores' screeches echoing through the shadows of the night.

Somewhere too, there was the sound of a lute playing. Stiles had never seen his night coming to a battle against a literal monster and her army, with battle music to the side, but apparently that’s what was happening now.

Nothing even went to plan in these woods.

Suddenly, there was a shriek and a  _ crack.  _ Stiles looked over to see Geralt thrusting his blade deep into the underside of the Kikimore queen. Her cry cut through the air like a knife, and a dozen more shrieks joined in. Stiles clapped his hands over his ears, dropping to his knees, and watched as Geralt’s face tightened and he twisted his blade. The Kikimore went down with a dying sound. Her remaining taloned legs flailed through the air.

Geralt yanked away, stumbled back, and one— one of the talons sunk through his chest.

Jaskier shouted the witcher’s name. Stiles blinked in shock.

Geralt went down with a pained grunt, arm wrapping around his chest and he dropped to one knee. The Kikimore collapsed sideways and didn’t get back up, and Stiles faintly heard the rest of the pack tearing the last few soldiers to shreds. But his eyes were fixed on the witcher. He barely even felt a pair of hands under his arms and Derek’s voice next to his ear.

“Stiles.  _ Stiles.” _

“Y-yeah,” Stiles turned to look at him. Derek’s face was smeared with blood and black goop, but he seemed relatively unharmed. Grey-green eyes tracked Stiles up and down and Derek squeezed his arm tighter, face something unreadable. “I’m okay, I’m—”

“Mage!”

Stiles turned toward Jaskier and pulled away from Derek's grip, starting toward them. Geralt was breathing heavily, face contorted in a look of pain and anger, and Jaskier caught Stiles by the sleeve the second he got close enough.

“You have to send us back. There are herbs that can help him in our land, but you have to send us back now.”

Stiles’s heart stopped. He looked at Derek, whose face had gone pale, and then back at the bard. Jaskier’s eyes were wide and pleading.

“You have to send us back, or the Kikimore’s venom will go to his heart and he will die. Send us back, mage. Stiles, send us back.”

“I— I don’t know—”

“Stiles,” Derek said, catching him by the arm. Stiles looked at the werewolf in blind panic.

“I can’t—”

“You can. You need to do this, Stiles, just like before.”

“Derek, I can’t.”

Geralt grunted in pain again and went down to both knees, leaning forward and coughing up black blood. It splattered across the leaves and Jaskier’s breaths hitched in panic as he gripped the witcher’s shoulder.

“Geralt? Geralt, don’t you dare die on me, you understand? You're not allowed to die on me!”

“Stiles,” Derek said, squeezing his arm. “You can do this.”

Stiles stared at him, then looked back at the witcher and his bard. Jaskier was rubbing circles over his back and his face was bloodless in the light of the moon. Jaskier's lute was abandoned in the leaves a few feet away. Geralt’s face was contorted in pain and disgust as he coughed up black blood again.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles said, trying to remember exactly what he’d done the first time. He’d been so determined and a little angry and just a little bit more than insistent. He’d figured it out, he could do it again—

Jaskier shouted his name again. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed and focused on  _ wanting  _ to send these two crazy medieval dudes back to their own world. Somewhere far away from Beacon Hills, where they did stuff like this for a living, and there was no pizza, and elves apparently weren’t as blond-haired and freakishly pretty as Legolas. He’d wasn’t just the token human, dammit, Stiles could  _ do  _ this.

And then there was a giant gaping hole in the middle of the forest. Crackling with sparks, filling the air with a loud shrieking noise. The pull came like a vacuum and Stiles turned his face away, feeling Derek’s fingers latch tighter around his arm.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted, and Stiles watched him lug the man to his feet, one arm wrapped around his neck. Jaskier took a step toward the portal and then turned around, shooting Stiles a look despite everything. “Thank you, bard!”

Derek was holding him back, pulling Stiles into his chest as the vacuum picked up. But Stiles managed a nod. Jaskier took another step, but then froze, turning in the other direction.

“My lute!”

Everything kind of slowed. Jaskier took a step toward it, the portal  _ shrieked  _ and Jaskier’s face changed as he stumbled backward, Geralt collapsing against his side. Stiles looked from the bard to the instrument and didn’t think twice before leaped toward it, fingers wrapping around the smooth wood as he turned to throw it in Jaskier’s direction.

But suddenly, he was moving too. Stumbling toward the black gaping hole as Jaskier and Geralt vanished from sight. Derek roared his name. Stiles shouted out, pinwheeling around to try and move away, but he couldn’t. He could barely reach out and feel Derek catch hold of his hand—

And a bright light filled the air. The portal shrieked again and Stiles closed his eyes, feeling like his body was being ripped apart as the entire thing detonated in an explosion of sparks. Light flashed, lighting up the forest, and then the portal winked out.

An Alpha and his mage vanished along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna end the fic here, have our dear witcher and his bard go home safe and sound, but then... things happened. So now we're in for the long haul, folks. I really hope you guys enjoyed, though!


	8. The Buddy System of the Four Kingdoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up with a dying witcher and Derek wakes up with a loud bard. Neither are very impressed.

Stiles woke up sure he was dead.

He sat straight up and looked wildly around. If he was dead, then hell looked a lot more like a forest than a burning pit of fire. And if this was heaven, Stiles could’ve gotten away with a lot more when he was alive.

He was surrounded by towering trees. They were nothing like Beacon Hills, where it was just half-dead pines and shrubs. He was sitting half-under a bush and could barely see the sky through the branches that procured his vision. And the air smelled different. Fresher.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, realization crashing over him. “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Beacon Hills anymore.”

Nobody actually answered him. Stiles felt a little stupid.

He pushed himself up and did a full circle, gazing around. The forest around him was hauntingly silent. He was all alone, Stiles realized, alarm clogging up his throat. He shouldn’t be— he remembered feeling Derek’s hand on his arm before they’d been pulled through the portal. But he was all alone. In the middle of nowhere, probably in an entirely new world, and all alone.

What if he hadn’t sent Geralt and Jaskier back to their world? Or what if he’d sent them and Derek there, and gotten himself pulled somewhere else? Stiles’s heart thudded harder and harder against his chest. He felt his throat closing, panic crashing over him.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, crouching down and putting his head in between his knees. He hadn’t had a full-on panic attack in a while; and this was not the place for something like that. But he could barely concentrate on the fingers wavering in front of his face as he tried to force himself to count them and breathe. 

Suddenly, something in the forest snapped. Stiles looked sharply up and there was another crack; like branches being stepped on. Derek’s name rose in his throat but Stiles smothered it at the last second.

With his luck, it’d be something else. Something much more dangerous. And he’d call it right to him.

Stiles stood slowly, peering through the trees. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, ready to fight— or probably run— if needed. But then a giant, lumbering figure came into view, one arm wrapped around his chest, and Stiles’s breaths froze in his throat.

“Geralt?”

The witcher looked up. His face was tight with pain and Stiles didn’t know how the hell he was walking. His question was answered about two seconds later when the witcher took another step and then stumbled forward, dropping down to one knee. Stiles rushed toward him.

“Oh my god, you’re still dying. You’re still dying. Is there something I can do? Are there like… hospitals around here?”

Geralt grunted. Stiles kneeled down at his side, fingers wavering over the still-bleeding wound that was literally a hole in his stomach. Nausea rose in his throat and Stiles had to force himself to not look away.

“Shit, I— I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re a mage,” Geralt grunted. “Fix it.”

“Me?” Stiles’s voice was unnaturally high, but he didn’t care. Geralt couldn’t actually expect him to be able to fix this… could he? Stiles could make sparks. Sometimes flames. He couldn’t heal a  _ hole  _ in someone’s  _ stomach. _

“If you don’t do something,” Geralt said, his face scarily pale. “I’m going to die.”

“I—I can’t fix this,” Stiles said. “I don’t know how. Deaton— we barely got past making things go sparky. I can’t make that—” he gestured to the wound— “just go away.”

Geralt dropped to his other knee and Stiles caught him by the shoulders before the man keeled over sideways. Geralt’s breaths were much too quick and much too raspy.  _ “Mage.” _

Stiles cursed. His hands trembled over the open wound and he tried desperately to remember every lesson and chapter he’d ever read in those stupidly giant books Deaton would make him read. He'd read about putting things back together and fixing things that had been broken. Stiles didn’t know if Geralt counted as something broken. But he clenched his jaw and forced himself to try, sparks leaping over his fingers.

Geralt roared in pain and Stiles nearly yanked away. But the witcher caught his wrist at the last second and held his hand over the wound, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut as the skin began to pull itself back together. Geralt clamped down on another shout, but he was holding Stiles’s wrist so hard, it was clear he was still in pain. 

Stiles thought the man might break a few bones if he tightened his grip much more.

But then suddenly, Geralt let go, and slumped sideways to the ground. He was breathing heavily and a layer of sweat shone on his forehead, but the wound was gone. The bleeding had stopped. Stiles slumped forward and took a few deep, careful breaths, feeling like he’d just been dunked underwater for longer than he could hold his breath.

“Good job, mage,” Geralt gasped. Stiles felt like that was the best compliment he’d ever wring out of the man. He had just saved this life, after all.

And with that thought, everything about their situation came crashing back. Stiles sat up and looked wildly around, his heart leaping into his throat again. He hadn’t had time to panic properly earlier. Now, though, he was feeling the start of an attack again.

“Mage,” Geralt said, breaking through the film creeping over his mind. “Stop.”

“S-stop what?”

“Your heartbeat is too loud,” Geralt said. “You’re panicking.”

“Of course, I’m panicking!” Stiles shouted, shoving himself up and doing a full circle. “We’re— we’re— where the hell even are we? I was supposed to be home by now! I was gonna make my dad dinner! Oh my god, he’s gonna kill me. I’m so dead. You know, if I don’t die here first!”

Geralt pushed himself into a sitting position, looking at Stiles with raised brows. Stiles was too busy panicking to care. If Geralt was here, shouldn’t the others be as well? Jaskier and— Derek.  _ Derek.  _

“Derek,” Stiles said softly. Then, he raised his voice. “Derek!

Geralt was on his feet in a second, hand falling the handle of his sword. “Quiet, mage!”

“Derek came through with me,” Stiles said, looking at him fiercely. “Where the hell is he? Where’s the bard? Why the hell it is just the two of us?”

“I don’t make the rules of world jumping,'' Geralt said, scanning the forest. “But perhaps they came out somewhere else.”

“So what the hell are we supposed to do, then?”

Geralt sighed and looked at Stiles like he was the last thing the witcher had expected and the last thing he wanted. Stiles supposed he couldn’t blame him. But he also couldn’t stop freaking out. Finally, the man tore his gaze away.

“We head to the nearest town,” Geralt said. “And hope my bard came through somewhere with your friend.”

Stiles didn’t even want to think of what might happen if he hadn’t. Derek— he— Stiles felt sick to his stomach. But he forced himself to nod and Geralt’s face softened for a moment. The witcher studied his face.

“You did good, mage.”

Stiles didn’t think he’d done anything good. Not with them being here and lost and alone. But he still nodded again. 

_ God,  _ his dad was going to kill him.

* * *

Derek threw up three times.

His head was spinning faster than he could keep up and his senses were all out of whack. He felt like he’d been ripped apart and then shoved back together again missing a few important pieces. Kneeling on the forest floor with waves of unfamiliar scents hitting him over and over again, Derek felt like his head was going to explode. 

He threw up three times before he could lift his head. And once more before he could stand.

He could hear the sound of nearby rushing water. The air was clean; it smelled like fresh rain and old pine. Derek felt a little lightheaded by all the strange scents that clung along with it, though. Something sweet, like flowers. Something rotting like a decaying animal corpse.

He couldn’t find Stiles’s scent, though. Or his heartbeat. Derek’s throat tightened and he did a full circle, searching the trees. But Stiles was nowhere in sight.

Derek stood there for a second. He didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do first; something had gone wrong. All he remembered was seeing the desperation in Stiles’s eyes as he started to slip toward the portal and he’d leaped after him— and then nothing. Blackness and then feeling sicker than he had ever before.

Derek closed his eyes and growled lowly. Scott could take care of the rest of the pack until he got back but Stiles; what if something had happened to Stiles? Derek’s skin felt like it was crawling at the very thought.

Suddenly, he heard something else. A curse and the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by the fast-beating heartbeat that he always pinned down to Stiles. But the scent was different. The scent was wrong.

_ The bard. _

Derek turned right as Jaskier stumbled out of the trees, his lute bumping against his back as he tripped and cursed his way through the undergrowth. The bard didn’t see him for a moment and when he did, Jaskier straightened up and a grin cracked across his face. The brown-haired man waved a hand through the air and stumbled toward Derek even faster.

“Oh, thank the goddess, I’m not alone! Tell me, werewolf, have you seen Geralt? The idiot is dying somewhere and it’s very important that I find him. Quickly.”

Wordlessly, Derek shook his head. Jaskier’s face tightened with concern. Derek could smell the edge of fear and worry in his scent, even if his expression didn’t show it. Jaskier forced a smile and nodded.

“I suppose we should find him then, yes?”

“I need to find Stiles,” Derek said. Jaskier’s face did something strange.

“The mage! He must be with Geralt. Oh, good gods, the witcher is saved. Your mage knows how to heal deadly wounds, yes?”

Derek blinked at him. He didn’t know; he didn’t think so. But he also took one look at Jaskier’s face and realized that was the opposite of what the bard needed to hear. Derek nodded and Jaskier sighed in relief.

“Thank the heavens. So, werewolf, I suppose we are travel companions now!”

“My name is Derek,” Derek growled. Jaskier huffed.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Now, I'm going to be your travel guide and if I know my witcher, he'll be heading to the closest town; or perhaps where we were first scooped up so he can find Roach. The point is, welcome to the Four Kingdoms!"

Derek stared at him. Jaskier chuckled nervously.

"Okay, well, as we head to the nearest town, shall I serenade you with my best love songs? Or shall I play something more happy? Toss a Coin, perhaps!”

“Or,” Derek said. “We could stick to silence.”

Jaskier only laughed, slipping his lute from around his shoulders and strumming a few chords. He started in one random direction and waved a hand through the air, beckoning Derek to follow. “Toss a Coin it is!”

Derek just stood there for a moment, gazing after him. Then he growled and forced himself to follow, as Jaskier’s song echoed through the air.

Of course, he got stuck with this one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it was about time I updated this again. I spiraled back into that black pit of starting a million new wips instead of working on my current ones and... well, here we are now! As always, the comments and support you guys leave makes my day. Stay safe!
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr!
> 
> [tumblr dumpser](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


	9. Hup-Two-Three-Four (Don't Kill the Idiot Bard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both groups try to adjust. It's... a new experience, to say the least.

“What about this one?” Stiles asked, moving off-path once more to look at a purple colored flower. Geralt paused and followed his gaze, before sighing. For the third time in five minutes.

“Feainnewedd.”

“Feainne-what?”

“It’s a rare flower,” Geralt said. “That only grows in places where elder blood has been spilled.”

Stiles drew back like he’d been burned, wrinkling his nose. Wiping his hand off on his shirt, he moved back to the path, shooting Geralt a sideways glance again. The witcher seemed to dislike conversation more than Derek. And that was saying something.

Still, Stiles had never been very good at staying quiet.

“So,” he said, licking his lips nervously. Geralt’s eyes went heavenward for a moment and Stiles rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to scowl. “How far is it to town?”

“Not far.”

“But you do know where we’re going?”

“Well enough.”

“Oh my god," Stiles said. "That’s a terrible answer, you know. Are we just getting more lost?”

“I know there’s a town close,” Geralt said flatly. “I can smell the distant scent of smoke and metal.”

Stiles turned to look at him, but Geralt looked completely serious. Despite himself, he whistled. “Woah, dude, that’s so cool. Honestly, you’re a lot like part-werewolf or something. You know, without the whole ‘shifting into a werewolf’ thing. You can’t do that, right? Even with the nickname ‘white wolf’?”

“No,” Geralt grunted. “I can’t.”

“But as a witcher, you’re not all human, right?”

“No.”

“So, what, you’re part kryptonian or something—”

“Listen, mage,” Geralt said, cutting him off. “There are a lot of things that live in a forest like this that can easily hear you talking. Now, can we continue in blessed silence, or do you want to lure them right to us?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man. But Geralt held his gaze and after a second, he groaned, turning back forward. “Fine, Captain Crank. Getting eaten alive would kinda suck, I suppose.”

“Captain what.”

“Crank, dude,” Stiles said, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Like cranky? No? How about Grumpycat? Sourwolf is already taken, but you could be Sourman. Get it? Like Superman but—” He cut off, seeing Geralt’s expression. “Fine, Mr. Solo, Batman is far superior anyway. He totally kicked Superman’s ass in the movie.”

Geralt’s face was nothing but blank. Stiles sighed, facing back forward.

“No one ever gets my references. Even Scott still hasn’t seen Star Wars and it’s been ages. Do you realize how frustrating that is?”

“I thought you were going to stop talking.”

Stiles scowled but clamped his mouth shut. This place wasn’t exactly what he was expecting; and Geralt was nothing like a chatty travel companion. Part of him wondered about Derek— and if he had come through the portal as well, how he was faring. 

Stiles liked Jaskier. He was sure the grumpy-growly werewolf was doing fine. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. Derek hadn’t slammed anyone against a wall or tree in a long time, so Stiles was sure he’d be doing okay.

He glanced back over at Geralt, but the witcher’s eyes were fixed on the forest again. The man kept one hand near his swords at all times, Stiles had started to notice, and he didn’t know if he’d ever seen the witcher  relaxed _.  _ Or at least, not looking like he was ready to kill someone. Or something.

Around Jaskier, maybe. Back at the loft when the witcher seemed to think no one else was looking. Stiles continued to stare and Geralt looked over, catching his gaze with a grunt.

“What.”

“How long have you and Jaskier been traveling together?”

Geralt’s face tightened. Stiles realized the man hadn’t really mentioned Jaskier since coming back through the portal; not even when Stiles was freaking out about Derek. He thought he could make out notes of something other than careful blankness in the witcher’s eyes, but Stiles wasn’t sure. Geralt grunted again.

“Years.”

“Like, a few years? Two, five, ten?”

“Decades.”

Stiles blinked. He knew Geralt was old— like really old— but Jaskier didn’t look a day over thirty. “Decades? Like… one? Two?”

Geralt gave him a flat look. Stiles choked on his breath, trying to imagine Jaskier being in his forties, fifties, or sixties. Was the bard even human? He looked about as human as it got but Stiles supposed there was always a chance he wasn’t. 

“Oo-kay,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “Clearly that's not a topic we’re going to go in-depth in today.”

Geralt didn’t answer. Stiles sighed.

“Do you ever tell your stories? Like, all the things you’ve ever seen? You know, the monsters and great battles, and all of that.”

“Jaskier tells them,” Geralt said. Stiles arched a brow.

“So he’s like your personal scribe? Of sorts. Dude, that's so cool, do you guys have job applications for stuff like that? Cause that’d be pretty badass.”

“I never asked him to be.”

“Seriously?” Stiles said. He shook his head. “I don’t understand anything about this place.”

Geralt turned his gaze back toward the forest with a grunt, constantly on alert, but Stiles thought he saw a small smile tugging at the corners of the man's lips. He thought that was progress, sighing heavily.

“My dad’s going to be freaking out right now. He told me I’m not allowed to die, you know, on all these supernatural shenanigans. I mean, I dunno if this actually counts as a ‘supernatural shenanigan’ but I don’t think that’ll stand as a very good argument when I get back. I’m going to be grounded for weeks.”

Geralt was looking at him again. But this time, Stiles almost thought the witcher looked… sad, maybe. It never occurred to him that at a hundred or so years old, any of Geralt's living relatives had probably died years ago. Was that how things worked here? Stiles thought that would, well, suck, he guessed. Did Geralt have any else other than Jaskier?

“Are you worried about him?” Stiles asked. “Your bard?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Jaskier is like a parasite,” Geralt said gruffy. Stiles’s eyebrows flew up and he couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. Geralt didn't seem bothered by his expression. “He gets under people’s skin and stays there. If he found your friend, then our paths will cross again eventually, and they'll both be fine. Jaskier doesn’t… die. In fact, I’ve rarely ever seen him hurt.”

Stiles thought that was the most he’d ever heard the witcher say in the entire time they’d known each other. Which hadn’t been long, but still. Geralt caught him staring and grunted, averting his eyes again.

“He’ll be fine.”

Stiles nodded, clamping his jaw shut. He hoped so, because if Jaskier wasn’t, Derek might not be either. And that shook him deeper than he’d ever admit out loud. Derek had to be doing fine. Of course, he had to be.

Stiles hoped they’d come across civilization at some point soon. And from there, they’d be able to get home. Quickly.

He already missed curly fries.

* * *

Derek was not, in fact, doing fine. 

He didn’t know how Jaskier was so sure they were going in the right direction, but it was like some other kind of other magical current drove the bard’s footsteps and he strummed his lute happily as they walked, singing song after song. Sometimes, Derek wondered if this bard was fully human. Or if there was something else at play here.

Whatever it was, nothing could save him if Derek had to listen to ‘Toss a Coin’ one more time. Three times in a row had been pushing it. Nearing ten in under an hour was making Derek fight the urge to rip Jaskier’s throat out.

God, he’d underestimated Stiles when they first met. He didn’t realize it was possible for another human being to be so  _ annoying. _

“Tell me, werewolf,” Jaskier said, turning to look at him. Derek rolled his eyes. “When you and your mage meet again, will you go right home?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You won’t stay? Not even for a little?”

Derek swatted another bug that’d landed on his face, growling. For some reason, Jaskier didn’t seem to be having this problem, but Derek had become a feasting ground for all sorts of bugs alike. He didn’t even want to dwell on  what  kind of bugs they possibly were; he swore one had two heads. And Derek would never admit to being scared them but that grossed him out to the very core.

Jaskier was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. Derek growled. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Derek said, swatting at another bug. “There’s no air conditioning here. There’s no showers or automatic water. And there’s no Camaro.”

“Camaro,” Jaskier said, sounding the word out. Then, he looked excited. “Is that the name of your horse? Geralt’s is Roach.”

Derek blinked at the bard. “What.”

“Roach,” Jaskier said, strumming out a few more chords of his lute. “That’s the name of his horse. Although, I’m pretty sure that’s the name of all the horses he’s ever had in the past. Geralt is pretty stuck in his ways.”

“My Camaro is not a horse,” Derek said, glaring. “It’s a car.”

“Those giant ugly metal things that smell bad?”

Derek ground his teeth together. Usually, if any one of his betas dared insult his car to his face, he’d knock them flat. But Derek wasn’t going to lay a finger on this bard; he’d sworn that to himself when they first started out. Derek was determined to have more self-control than that.

But Jaskier was really pushing his limits.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” Derek asked. Everything around them looked the same. And if he died out here, he was going to be pissed. Jaskier only chuckled, turning on his heel and glancing around.

“Fairly sure, yes.”

“Fairly sure?”

“Well, see, werewolf, I don’t actually know where we are,” Jaskier said. “But I think we’re close.”

“Close… to a town.”

“Hopefully.”

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, willing away the fangs and claws. God, he couldn’t believe he was actually wishing it was Stiles tromping around in the woods with him instead. _No,_ actually, he could. Derek didn’t know what the hell Stiles had gotten them into and worrying about whether or not he was even alive was setting his teeth on edge. Derek wanted to be looking for him, not following this— _bard—_ through the forest.

“You don’t like me,” Jaskier said, looking over. Derek sighed, but didn’t deny that, and the bard only chuckled. “It’s okay, werewolf, Geralt didn’t like me at first either. Not everyone falls easily to these charms.”

“They’re charms, are they?”

“Oh, come on,” Jaskier said, moving closer. Derek growled when he poked at his arm. “You’re not nearly as prickly as a century-old witcher, now are you?”

“I could be.”

“Bollocks,” Jaskier said. “Give it a few more decades and then maybe, yes. But I’ll get under your skin eventually.”

Derek only rolled his eyes. Jaskier grinned.

Suddenly, the trees opened around them and Jaskier cheered as Derek spotted a road. An actual road. Somehow, the idiot bard  had  known where he was going, and as if Jaskier could read his thoughts, the bard shot him a triumphant look. Derek huffed. 

The road was empty and Derek still couldn’t catch any scent of Stiles having come or gone. He ground his teeth together and hesitated for a moment, gazing in both directions. But he couldn't see anything.

Jaskier came over, poking in him the arm again. But it was gentler, this time. Like he was trying to be comforting instead of annoying. Derek shot him a flat look.

“What.”

“Your mage will be okay,” Jaskier said. “Geralt will take care of him.”

“If he even found him in the first place.”

“He did,” Jaskier said, sounding nothing but sure. Derek wondered how he was so certain. “Geralt might be a little rough around the edges, but he’s a complete softie. He’ll find your mage, werewolf, and he’ll take care of him.”

Derek’s skin still itched with uncertainty, but he nodded. He thought he caught the faint scent of smoke and metal too, turning toward the right fork of the road. Jaskier was already starting off in that direction, strumming the strings of his lute again.

Derek really didn’t think he was human. He was something— something strange. This entire palace was. Derek constantly swept off his feet by all the strange scents and sounds. It was… different. Wrong.

Derek never thought he’d miss his pack. And his idiot betas.


	10. The Mage and the Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is in for a shock, Geralt is softer than he looks, and Derek might be too.

Geralt had been right; town was close. 

Stiles had never been so relieved to see other people, even though he was getting the strongest looks as he walked through town. He looked down at himself and realized it was probably the things he was wearing; a bright red sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. He must look like someone from… well, from somewhere else. 

Or a wizard. Stiles totally looked like a wizard.

Whispers followed them down the street as people caught sight of Geralt too. Stiles wondered if that was because he was a witcher or if his reputation was even bigger than Jaskier had boasted. The bard liked to say he made Geralt’s image even better. Stiles just didn’t know what his previous image had been.

He learned pretty quickly.

They entered the inn and things went from bad to worse in about three seconds. Stiles just wanted to see what the heck an actual medieval inn looked like; but instead, he ended up crouching behind an overturned table less than a minute later.

“What the hell,” Stiles said, ducking as a mug flew over his head and shattered against the wall behind him. “Is happening?”

“This,” Geralt grunted, face screwed up in irritation. “Might be the town Jaskier and I were supposed to help before your portal took us away.”

“And you didn’t realize that before?”

“I did,” Geralt growled. “But I didn’t realize they’d try to  _ kill _ us.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, ducking another mug. “Clearly, people here have a lot more anger issues than where I’m from. Because usually, tavern fights are highly ill-advised and most people don’t try to kill someone because they’re a little irritated!”

“I’ve never gone back on one of my contracts before,” Geralt said. He looked grumpy; like the raging chaos around them wasn’t what mattered, but the fact that Stiles had accidentally pulled him into another world was. Stiles rolled his eyes despite himself.

“Well, I’m terribly sorry for ruining your crystal clear reputation. Though, I’m sure a little smear won’t be a problem— oh wait! The townspeople are trying to  _ kill us.” _

Geralt gave him a flat look. Stiles glared back, not even in the mood.

Suddenly, the witcher was standing and Stiles stared in shock as he started forward. The man managed to dodge most of the projectiles thrown and the ones that he didn’t, he literally shouldered against. Stiles gaped after him and the townspeople throwing things started to shy back, taking off toward the door as Geralt growled threateningly. Stiles blinked a few times.

In less than a minute, they were left alone in an empty tavern. Stiles stood carefully, staring at the witcher.

“Dude, that was freaking amazing!”

Geralt only grunted. Stiles could’ve sworn his ears were tinted red, though.

“But I’m guessing we can’t stay here,” Stiles said. “You don’t think… Derek has been by, do you? And if we leave, what if they show up anyway? And get the same treatment? Derek has some terrifying eyebrows, but he can’t exactly keep walking after being pelted by ceramic mugs. He’s not the Hulk or anything.”

Geralt gave him a confused look, as he usually did when Stiles said a lot of things at once. Stiles found it hard to remind himself that Geralt didn’t understand half of the things he said.

“I mean,” Stiles said carefully. “Do you think they’ve arrived yet?”

Suddenly, the tavern door burst open. Stiles startled and Geralt drew his sword, spinning around with a growl. The newcomer stumbled back with a sharp yelp and Geralt instantly dropped his blade. A second passed before Jaskier peered back around the doorframe, blue eyes snapping from Geralt, to Stiles, and then back.

Then he stumbled inside. “Geralt! Thank goodness you’re here, we need to go!”

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles said, starting forward. Jaskier cast a panicked look over his shoulder and Stiles’s heart stopped.

“That’s what I’m trying to say, mage. They’ve got the werewolf, Geralt, and I don't know what they think he is. But we really need to  _ get him out,  _ or—”

Stiles was already shoving past both of them. He heard Geralt bark his name but ignored the man, racing down the street toward the sound of chaos. His heart was in his throat and Stiles knew if he saw something— if Derek got hurt because of him— Stiles would never forgive himself.

Derek couldn’t get hurt.

He stumbled down the street toward where a crowd had begun to gather. Shoving through, Stiles ignored the spits and curses. Sparks danced along his fingertips and he knew he wasn’t fully in control. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care.

Shoving into the front, Stiles spotted Derek backed up against one of the buildings. His eyes were bright red and his face half-shifted, claws and fangs out. He looked more scared than angry, though, body tensed in a defensive position. Stiles burst out of the crowd and stumbled in front of the man, turning to face the gathering of angry faces.

This was nothing like he’d imagined. This was a mob, not a cute little gathering of village people. Fantasy worlds sucked.

“Monster!” 

“Look at his eyes! They’re blood-eyes!”

A rock sailed through the air— past Stiles— and Derek made a quiet noise of pain as it caught him across the cheek. Stiles pressed against his front even as Derek growled and caught his arm, trying to tug him back.

“Dammit, Stiles, get out of the way!”

“No way,” Stiles said, shaking his arm loose. Sparks continue to dance over his fingertips and he didn’t know what he was going to do but—

Suddenly, the crowd was parting. People hissed and cursed and Stiles spotted Geralt stalking toward them, Jaskier hopping nervously at his heels. Stiles didn’t think he’d ever felt so relieved, nearly melting on the spot.

“Idiot mage,” Geralt growled, catching him by the scruff of the neck and pulling him away. Stiles yelped and tried to struggle loose, only to see Derek getting the same treatment, although Jaskier was having a much harder time hauling a bigger werewolf away. The crowd parted like butter as Geralt moved through again, but Stiles could hear their curses.

“Butcher!”

“Bloody mutant!”

“Get out of our town!”

More rocks were sailing through the air. Geralt didn’t even wince against the ones that struck him, but Stiles yelped as one caught him across the cheek, slicing through skin. Geralt was pulling him along without slowing and Stiles could barely keep his feet underneath him. He nearly face-planted at least a dozen times.

Finally, they were out of the crowd and then only the jeers followed. Geralt let go and kept walking, heading toward the edge of town; the other direction from the forest they’d come out of. Stiles dropped back to Derek’s side and Jaskier hurried forward to Geralt’s.

The werewolf was bleeding in a few places, but the cuts were quickly healing. Stiles still clenched his jaw at the sight of blood.

Derek’s face though, tightened even more when he saw the cut across Stiles’s cheek. His eyes flashed in anger and he brushed a thumb across it, eyes turning red with Stiles winced. Quickly, Stiles covered it up with a chuckle.

“Not such a great first day, huh, Sourwolf?”

“You’re not allowed to do that again,” Derek growled. Stiles raised a teasing eyebrow.

“What, send us to another world through a portal due, or standing in front of you as an angry mob goes feral?”

Derek growled lowly at the back of his throat. Stiles deflated.

“Sorry, Sourwolf.”

“Don’t,” Derek said. “Don’t apologize to me. Just… don’t do that again, Stiles. Okay?”

Stiles only nodded, because if he said the actual words out loud, Derek would know he was lying. From the look in the man’s eyes, Derek knew anyway, but he let it go. On the road ahead, Geralt and Jaskier had paused too, and Stiles didn’t even realize he and Derek had stopped first.

Jaskier was looking at them with an expression of amusement, but Geralt just looked… confused. Or calculating, maybe. The witcher glanced from Stiles, to Derek, then over at Jaskier and grunted. Turning on his heel, he started down the road again.

With Derek at his side, Stiles hurried to follow.

* * *

Sitting around the fire that night, Geralt watched the mage and the werewolf tend to each other. They were soft and gentle, and quiet words were murmured back and forth between them that made Geralt’s stomach feel weird. Jaskier sat beside him, strumming out a few notes, but paused after a little while. The bard followed his gaze and smiled.

“Soft affections are the dearest, ay, witcher?”

Geralt looked sharply away, focusing on the fire. Jaskier chuckled and nudged his side.

“Oh, don’t pull the scary face on me. I missed you just as much as the werewolf missed his mage. And I know you missed me too.”

“I did not,” Geralt said grumpily. “There was blessed silence and I enjoyed it.”

“You were paired alongside the mage,” Jaskier said. “There was no blessed silence. Maybe a little less talking than you’re used to, but still quite a bit of rambling, I’d assume. In fact, I’m willing to bet my lute on it.”

Geralt grunted into the fire. Jaskier leaned against his side and despite everything, Geralt felt a little bit of his scowl slip. The bard seemed to recognize that because he chuckled again.

“I am glad you’re okay.”

“Shut up, bard.”

“Because if anything would have happened to you, I think I would’ve been beside myself with sorrow.”

“Fuck off.”

“And you thought I wanted to stay in the world of pizza,” Jaskier continued, undeterred by Geralt’s words. “I bet you’re feeling rather silly right now. Where else would I get to go on adventures like the ones we’ve already experienced?”

Geralt only rolled his eyes this time. He’d deny it to his grave if anyone saw the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In fact, he’d deny it beyond that.

“You know,” Jaskier said, turning his gaze to the other two again. “The mage barely managed to send us home the first time. He’s young Geralt, a little bit like Ciri. I think we might be with these two for a little while before they figure out how to get back to their world.”

Geralt grunted. That thought had crossed his mind not a few hours ago.

“I wouldn't mind it, though,” Jaskier said. “I think I’ve grown quite fond of them. Prickly as the werewolf might be. He’s got your edges, you know.”

“And the mage has your tongue,” Geralt said. Jaskier scoffed.

“You don’t yet know my tongue.”

They both went silent, suddenly. Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heartbeat pounding harder and the bard chuckled nervously, waving a hand through the air.

“All I’m saying, is the mage might need some time.”

“He could use some help,” Geralt agreed. Jaskier looked at him with an expression of delight and Geralt met his gaze, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Which is why, after we pick up Roach, we’ll be going to Yennefer.”

The bard’s excited look instantly melted. “No, not Yennefer!”

Two pairs of eyes snapped to them and Geralt winced, glancing back at the others. Neither the mage nor the werewolf said anything, though, turning back to their own business. Jaskier fixed him with a fierce look.

“Not Yennefer.”

“She helped Ciri, she can help him,” Geralt said. “We’re going to Yennefer.”

“But it hasn’t even been a decade yet!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, fixing him with a flat look. Jaskier held his gaze for a long moment before groaning and turning back to the fire, strumming a couple of half-hearted chords on his lute.

“I don’t like Yennefer.”

“I know.”

“I really don’t like Yennefer, Geralt.”

“I know _ ,  _ Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically. “Well, since you’ve heard my concerns, I suppose we might as well. But I will be drunk for the entirety of our visit and I shall spend the entire time traveling there coming up with witty insults against her. You know the last time we were face to face, she said I had grey hairs?”

Geralt swallowed a chuckle. Jaskier moaned out loud. 

“She did, Geralt. I don’t have grey hairs!”

“I’ve noticed. You should.”

“But I don’t!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. He’d stopping wondering whatever the fuck Jaskier was a long time ago. The bard didn’t age and Geralt didn’t have the patience to even consider why. Not after spending decades with the idiot. “No, you don’t.”

Jaskier looked content at that. Settling further into Geralt’s side, he watched the flames, and Geralt waited until his breaths had slowed. Only then did he glance sideways, looking over Jaskier’s face and checking him quietly for external injuries. The bard’s face looked younger when he was asleep, if that was possible. And his features looked softer.

Geralt watched him a long time; until the moon was high in the sky. Then he shifted until Jaskier was fully on the ground, and settled down to keep watch at his side.

“I’m glad you’re okay too, bard,” Geralt said quietly, eyes fixed on the forest beyond.

In his sleep, Jaskier smiled softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, it's been a few weeks since I've updated! But here we are now, and I hope you all enjoyed! Of course, the comments and support you guys leave makes my day. Stay safe out there!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles realizes things aren't as exciting as he'd expected, Derek gets protective, and bandits are involved.

“So, this Yennefer,” Stiles said, studying Geralt’s face. “She's a witch?”

“Yes!” Jaskier said brightly, at the same time Geralt smacked a hand against his arm and rolled his eyes.

“No, she’s a sorceress.”

“She’s the devil, that’s what she is,” Jaskier muttered. Stiles blinked at the bard and Geralt’s expression tightened with a note of exasperation. As if he was used to this kind of dislike coming from the bard in regards to the sorceress and had given up arguing at this point.

Stiles just didn’t know Jaskier had a negative bone in him.

“But she can help,” Derek said flatly. He didn’t look very excited about much of the idea and Stiles didn’t miss Jaskier’s grin when the bard noticed Derek’s lack of enthusiasm as well. But Geralt only nodded.

“She can help.”

Derek glanced sideways and after a moment, Stiles realized they were all waiting on _him_ for an answer. He blinked a few times before nodding; much to Jaskier’s disappointed look. “If she can help get us home, then I say we give her a go. I mean… as long as none of this involves going into any more towns that will attempt murder again.”

Geralt winced at that. Jaskier only huffed.

“That was bollocks,” he said. “They’d turn against a witcher if he sneezed wrong. I knew we never should have offered our aid in the first place.”

“Bard,” Geralt said. “Shut up.”

“Go take a nap. You know it’s true.”

Geralt only rolled his eyes. “First we’ll head to the site where the bard and I were taken, though. My horse is there.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said, remembering Jaskier’s rambling. “The one named after a bug?”

Jaskier burst out into laughter but Geralt’s jaw ticked and his face tightened dangerously. Stiles realized his mistake too late, shying away into Derek’s steadfast form. The werewolf growled lowly but Geralt ignored him, turning away with a grunt. 

“I like you, mage,” Jaskier said, wiping at his eyes. “I’ve told you that before, right?”

“More than once,” Stiles muttered. “And I _cherish_ it.”

Jaskier chuckled again and turned after the witcher, calling him some names that Stiles decided were not appropriate for the PG-13 tag. He sighed and glanced over at Derek, raising a brow.

“So, we’re going to meet a witch?”

“Your father is never going to let you leave the house again,” Derek said, although there was a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Stiles rolled his eyes and started after the other two, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

It rained that day.

Stiles thought that was exactly what they needed; rain. Within the hour he was soaked and shivering, pressing against Derek’s side as the werewolf radiated heat. Up ahead, Jaskier was trudging next to Geralt too, and the witcher was uncharacteristically quiet. His white hair was soaked and his shoulders were hunched, and Jaskier looked downright miserable. He wasn’t even trying to strum songs on his lute anymore, which Stiles could be a tiny bit grateful for.

It was clear the bard had a favorite. And Stiles knew all the words to ‘Toss a Coin’ at this point. It was something he never knew he’d find himself memorizing.

At one point, Derek stripped off his leather jacket and pulled it around Stiles’s shoulders, despite Stiles’s protests. The man only gave him an eyebrow-glare and the proceeded to stick to his side, and Stiles stopped trying to argue. Instead, he huddled into the warmth gratefully and proceeded to trudge along.

His shoes were splattered in mud by the time the rain slowed to a dull drizzle. And his jeans were soaked through. He was decidedly not dressed for this kind of adventure.

“You’re still shivering,” Derek muttered and Stiles glanced over. The werewolf’s brows were drawn together and he looked a little constipated and Stiles couldn’t help chuckling. Leaning sideways, he bumped against the man’s shoulder.

“Only a little.”

“We should stop. This isn’t the right weather to be walking around the woods in.”

Stiles didn't miss how Geralt glanced back at that, the witcher's sharp golden eyes going between them. Quickly, Stiles shook his head. “I’m not dying, Sourwolf, we should keep going. The faster we get the horse, the faster we find the witch, the faster we both get home and eat a lot of curly fries.”

Derek’s face softened at that. “Curly fries?”

“Oh, I’m going to eat so many, you don't even know. It’s only been two days and I could eat a whole restaurant right now.”

“So being sucked into one of your fantasy worlds isn’t very exciting, then?”

“Eh,” Stiles said, shrugging. “I say I’d like to be in the Lord of the Rings, but would I really? I wouldn’t make it five days, Sourwolf. And not just because I’d probably get eaten alive by a tree or have my skull bashed in by an orc. But do you know how terrible it would be to live without Netflix? I’d yeet myself into Mount Doom.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Derek said, looking amused. Stiles grinned.

“I know.”

Geralt was still watching them but he looked sharply forward when Derek followed Stiles’s gaze forward. Stiles watched Jaskier murmur something quiet to him, the bard’s hair plastered to his forehead from the water, and Geralt rumbled a soft laugh. The bard’s clothes were much less flaunty when they were sticking to his frame. And he was huddled against Geralt’s side like the witcher would somehow block the rain.

Suddenly, Geralt came to a stop. Jaskier stumbled to a stop too, nearly falling face-first into the mud, and beside Stiles, Derek stiffened. Stiles glanced over, arching a brow.

“Sourwolf?”

Red flickered through Derek’s eyes. Geralt glanced back and the two exchanged a look before the witcher drew his sword, the metal making a quiet wet noise. Jaskier looked alarmed.

“Geralt, what is it? What’s going on now?”

“Beyond the trees,” Geralt said, looking at Derek. Stiles looked at the werewolf in confusion but Derek only nodded, face shifting and his claws coming out. The two started forward and Jaskier stumbled back to Stiles's side, blue eyes sparkling with both excitement and slight concern.

“What the hell,” Stiles said. “Is happening?”

“Geralt’s going all witchery,” Jaskier said. “Trouble is afoot.”

“Trouble is a— _what?_ Derek!”

“Hush, mage,” Jaskier said, clapping a hand over his mouth. Stiles made a noise of protest but Jaskier ignored him, grinning from ear to ear as he watched Geralt and Derek move into the trees. Stiles squirmed to move after them but _how was the bard so strong?_

Stiles heard what sounded like a crack and then a sharp scream. He startled and yanked out of Jaskier’s grip, stumbling through the trees. He ignored the bard’s shout at his back.

Beyond the trees was a small camp. There were a few tents set up and a giant fire that was barely flickering in the rain that still fell. There were a few horses tied off to the side and— the nighttime was alive with chaos. Stiles stumbled back as he spotted Geralt engaged with a man with a two-sided axe and saw Derek only a few feet away, dodging a man with a long silver blade.

Stiles opened his mouth, but Derek’s name died in his throat as he locked eyes with another man across the clearing. His eyes rounded and he stumbled back as the man moved forward, drawing a jagged knife from a sheath at his side.

“Oh _shit,”_ Stiles said, stumbling backward. His foot caught on a branch and he went tumbling to the ground, slipping through the mud as he tried to scramble backward.

The moon caught on the knife as the man swung. But then there was a _crack._

Stiles stared in shock as Jaskier hit the man across the back with his lute. The bard’s eyes were gleaming in the faint light and his expression couldn’t be described as anything other than feral. The man dropped to the ground like a rock and Stiles gaped. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself up.

"Dude."

Jaskier just grinned. “Now see that’s now you—”

“Bard!”

Jaskier made a startled noise and spun around, right as a burly trunk of a man leaped toward him. Stiles acted before he thought, shoving Jaskier aside and driving his shoulder into the man’s stomach. It sent him flying back instead of their attacker, but the man still grunted in surprise and stumbled a few steps in the other direction. 

Before Stiles could even blink, Geralt was there and driving the man’s skull against the nearest tree. He winced back at the cracking noise and tried to calm his suddenly flipping stomach.

“Dammit, Stiles,” Derek said, stalking over. The clearing was littered with bodies now and Stiles rose unsteadily to his feet, trying to wipe off his pants. But he only succeeded in spreading the mud and gave up with a sigh, shooting the werewolf a raised brow.

“What the _hell_ was that, Sourwolf?”

“Bandits,” Geralt said, his voice a growl. His sword was stained with red and Stiles grimaced at that, looking sharply away. As if he caught the expression, Geralt’s face did something weird and he quickly sheathed the blade. Jaskier sighed dramatically.

“Well, now that’s over. Roach!”

Stiles blinked in confusion as the bard started across the clearing. Geralt grunted and started after him and Jaskier untied one of the horses; a giant brown steed laden with packs. 

“Guess that’s the horse we came for,” Derek said, stepping to Stiles’s side. Then he frowned. “He thought Camaro was a horse.”

Stiles barked out a startled, jittery laugh, unable to help himself. Derek gave him a sideways glance with furrowed eyebrows, but there was a small smile picking at the sides of his lips. Stiles bumped against the man’s side and started forward.

“Come on, Sourwolf, let’s go get introduced to a horse. And you’re not allowed to run off next time, you understand that? No bandit ambushes without telling me first.”

“I… don’t want you to get hurt,” Derek said quietly. Stiles raised a brow and the man’s ears turned red. “Your father would kill me.”

“I don’t plan on getting hurt.”

“You also didn’t plan to bring us here,” Derek said. Stiles flinched and the man looked constipated. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know, Sourwolf.”

“It’s just,” Derek paused and glanced around. Stiles was trying not to do that. He felt like he could be sick. Because yeah, they’d faced a lot of things in Beacon, but never anything like this. There was a new monster every other week. But these… these were men.

Dead men, now.

“It just different here,” Derek said quietly. “This isn’t Beacon Hills.”

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice. He kind of wanted to turn in the other direction and not stop walking until the clearing was far behind them. And he also wanted to bury his face into Derek’s shoulder and not look around again.

That was stupid, he thought. But he couldn’t help it.

“I know,” Stiles murmured. “I know.”

“Back at the loft, I told you it was my job as the Alpha— as your Alpha— to make sure you don’t die,” Derek said. “And you said you’d let me. That goes for this place too, Stiles. If I can’t keep you safe then there’s no point.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Am I allowed to make sure you don’t die too?”

For a moment, Derek looked like he might argue. Stiles half-expected him to say something stupid like ‘I'm a werewolf’ or 'I don't need any help’ but instead, Derek nodded. Stiles smiled a little and caught the man’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

“My dad can’t kill you if we both make it back alive.”

“He also can’t kill me if I’m dead.”

“Shut up, Sourwolf, that’s not funny," Stiles said. "You’re not allowed to have a sense of humor if it's going to give me anxiety.”

Derek chuckled weakly and his fingers threaded through Stiles’s own. Stiles thought if he concentrated on that, if he concentrated on the man in front of him, then maybe he could block everything else out. Where they were— what had happened. The things that might be yet to come.

He could do his best to block that out. Because this was no PG-13 video game. And Stiles would never forgive himself if Derek died.

If he could've seen in the werewolf’s mind, he would’ve realized Derek was thinking the same thing.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is kinda a self-indulgent fic, but here we are. As always, you guys are my drive and inspiration, and I really hope you all enjoyed so far! Your comments and support mean the world. Inspired by this post: 
> 
> [ https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/post/616682974651580416](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com)


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